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.