Spiractua Aeriolum

You must see the little walkway in your mind.
Leading from the strange door to its smell.
They call the street a bird inside green fire.
No one knows that small girl’s twinkle.

Men will come. They will. And with them hell.
And all blast of hope and beauty, all for hire.
The small girl’s twirl will ruin their death.
Her special animal destroys armies.

The little walkway leads to the ache of scents.
Where the grandmother is a door with eyes.
She is reading a poem written by time.
Its phrases shatter gods like old candy.

Before I come back to [stolen word name place].
I dissolve into a cloud of smoldering flies.
We fall in love with that old rock that makes water.
From when Moses banged it with his stick.

(Only after that did we begin to dream.
And that’s the part that no one ever told.)