Wicker Man
Last night,
I dreamt of the Wicker Man.
Could take both his pinkies
And ignite the tips.
Watch the candlestick bleed
Into a new kind of wax.
I could take each
Cream flower
Nesting a teacup,
Could rub the petals
On my eyelids,
Chew the Easter color.
But the Wicker Man is charred.
I’ve seen him eat flowers too.
I’ve seen him brew tea
In kettles over his own chest.
I’ve seen his eyes under my shoes
And within my own fire.
He does smile.
The Wicker Man does smile at me.
Sometimes.
