There is a certain pitch to plans made in prison, not
like the half-baked dreams of anywhere else. The wings
as real as the wax, and the sun, the son the sum of the
parts you gave, dreaming him. There are flowered
children elsewhere in a field that never knew walls
except on set and you cannot blame them for the
glow of their faces how they won’t age it takes
absorption to do that but to these it’s all water
rolling, the waves the waves the duck’s
back all joy and fun except
for the highlights the chase scenes so
good for ratings so good for saying watch
look what I did. No sense explaining to the scions
of such gentle suns how yours will kill you, quick.
Offer anyway what you have of shelter and an
ear to the running stream of tears. They roll
off the backs of them stop looking for
logic they roll because those backs are
the backs of the sons of the sun,
o child
how I wish to pretend.