The Sun

The child is carried on the pony's back,
his own back to the sunflowers
that now tilt at noon.

The kid has ripped the heads
off posies for his crown,
has seized on them like Goliath
in a garden.  Otherwise, like the beast,
he's clothed in skin alone.

The pony knows the way:
first go round
then round.
Then go round again.








Everything is peaked
and perfect.  Two nipples and a navel:
simple fulcrum, unmounded skin.

The boy sprouts a red feather,
like a practice erection. His open arms
size up the universe.
The sunflowers yearn toward the blonde head
that holds no notion but now.

And the Sun beams golden S's
that echo the ripples in the toy flag.