Placate the lower jaws,
inhere the littlest of sparrows,
inclothe his least inheritance
until the stopper
of his perfect mouth
lifts and limbo falls
aloft to clinics of prevention.
Oh everywhere! Placate the teeth,
bring them alignment,
loosen their grip on all that’s poor,
on all that’s vital,
that struggle to know
good work; allay and heal
the thirst of the youngest son.
Good work chases the banter of veins,
chases the boy lifting his kite.
The boy runs in the veins
of his mother
as all little banters
run in the perfect veins of the mothers,
in all perfect fathers who know love.
Placate the anger of dragons,
the fevered crossroads of death,
make way for the small seeds
that fall lightly
to prepared soil,
let them sprout as they know how,
and quietly restore a world reborn.