Cooing an Innocent Boy

Cooing an Innocent Boy

He sings like the secret of rags

with eyelids that relieve poverty.

I break the dream that drew me into his voice

and leave through a window to a jail

where I fast in labyrinths

stripped of leaves by his music.

I write on the bare branches

to avoid licking the floor.

Compose songs about homelands

with oxidized tongues

full of stringless guitars.

He sings like skies feeding on watches

to force us to believe the boy

soaking his memories in the river

is not made out amber alert teardrops.

He calls out his name,

leaves fingerprints on the wings

of a beautiful butterfly.