I shot the messenger a sundown
Stare when he bold-told me that
The Eagle gold-grimaced a glint frown,
Free-fell, freaked not, firmed at-bat—
Soared-stoned swallowed Famed for Fated—
Flew from empires’ nests like light
Wind-burned, and, was Fourth e-Stated.
I peered into him like night.
Consolation-chided, I console
The Swallow with cursive lips
Not waking, embracing with cajole
She from th’eternal eclipse.
Where strove The Eagle and The Dove
Was born ornery public
Who, at his free-fall, did heed Love
Her red tryst in the rubric.
Each viciously they play their genre—
The one a latent lover,
The other a triple entendre;
Still-seeking to recover.
Lo, aflutter! Whitened mind’s eye,
The Dove will cull-calminate
And forgive us the fly-too-high
Thrones we must each abdicate.