Asleep by the stream while the sun shines,
shadows dissemble in the arch of his spine.
Lying still with his back to the wind,
even his most profound thoughts turn to stone.
So, mangy-haired rascal, the child,
the savior. A dream of amber,
a pillar of salt. A glade of rushes left
to lie his head upon at night.
In the morning, find him
rolling round the tree trunk,
searching for a place to climb.
From down here, everything
seems lit by the sun. Curled
in a fetal ball, searching
for a place to rest his bones,
all his visions calcify into tears.
At night, God whispers him
a lullaby, the wind
breathing ripples at his heart, the moon
a knife curved over his weary loins.
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