It is a breakable November,
and the sun is a stage light
or an ornament, both hung on
the eastern wall of this
cloudless Texas sky.
The birds that are all sewn
together in a small book to my
left are as much an
orchestra as they are
the soundtrack to this
camera-less film.
And there are men filling
the beds and floors and couches
of this ranch style labyrinth,
but they are asleep and
not aware of the jittery butterflies
or the heavy dragonfly.
And I am a prince here,
my castle filled with
mossy chandeliers,
as we are all princes
in these open air banquet halls
of Our Most Benevolent King.
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