Infancy.

Wise things are coercive--
Blooming in fields lost to sons, bell-casters,

To battles.

The flowers on the blue curve are a sign of a season
Shortening, having colored

Now, already
Dull.

The pink inner thrills on those
studious fingers feast on the
Over-abundant sun.

Such a world of lies--just listening will
Stop your heart.

Last season a fat baby rose from his cradle,
The lava-folds of his tender back to the field,

Unfriendly to the hands that made him laugh.