Chanson de l’Enfant Prodigue


The child of wonder looks in bed
at naked ceilings overhead.
Infinity eats up the skies
as burning teardrops cauterize
his wet white eyes.

The child of wonder cannot pass
the curved rococo looking-glass.
Suspended in between the pair,
body and image frozen there,
he whirls to stare.

The child of wonder, deep in his
gut, knows how long forever is,
and, like a haunted anarchist,
hears a repeated order hissed
not to exist.

The child of wonder juggles word
and number; he has often heard
that theorem is not destroyed
and song, peculiarly employed,
endures a void.

The child of wonder lies alone
and touch or thought ignites the bone
and thrills the flesh. Hears through the grate
the wind’s suggestion, insensate:

The child of wonder watches today
arrive. Premature dawn is gray
and flat upon the wet earth he
perceives intangibility
and is not free.

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