in the spectrum of folly and whimsie
there is a quiet arrow that draws back
and never releases
upon the wings of cupid in the hair of medusa
dances a serpent of secret confection
but never strikes
and beyond the china and berlin
that sits me here and you there
is the little one that never came along
but sometimes sings a fantasy psalm
praise for the days before
the child's birthday
whimsie and folly of the spectrum within
shields from all the slings and arrows
of the serpents
