Bratty Little Boy

At first, it was easy to clothe the child in hard-earned soft cloth

and hold him fast. His hurt, contagious. Maybe you knew it

better than he. Maybe the sparks hurt your skin and pierced

your feelings as you looked down into those frightened eyes

that wanted to be more. To become a fiction with steadfast

armor. No room for love when terror refracts. Is there a correction.

The spats and spurts of younging toward the firmament proposed.