Felix, the Boy

For Javier

We're willing to see
one more showing
of Itsy Bitsy Spider,
even though your parents
have called it an installation.

The grass is lightning
in your luminous nakedness.
One second and you have time
contained on a fingertip.

Purity, purity . . . purity, purity
cluck the chickens.
Who taught you to touch
a pair of wings like that?
You're also flapping around like the chickens.

Purity, purity . . .

Any act of love is insolent.

I want it! It's mine!
cries the bromeliad, barely showing its throat.

We want it! It's ours!
sigh the candles in sorrow as they go out.

We surround you to prick our fingers
suck them and flap our own wings.