THE MIDNIGHT DEN

I am living
in the midnight den
and fighting the beast
with hands of straw,
my only weapon this
ill-advised faith
in the wooden-throated bird
and the boy whose blood
is a drum.

I know three languages,
a little alchemy
and some cartomancy,
but no accounting.

I know the price of fire
and the impermanence of bargains
and the number of laces
in the sun's corset.

If I tell you the weight
of hope, if I tell you how high
a god can leap
will you build me a house
with walls of water
and help me carve life
into the clay breast of dreams?

   -for Michael