On the dining room table, the one they gave to you for you 
To dance on, to shed
Your purple dolphin feathers into luster cement, to bleed
Your green bedsheets and colorant oils plenty,
So that all of it would be map to your name:

I.

Gashes in the surface of the wood, deep and long,
Make a crop field, plowed and furrowed, but abandoned
Before the seeds were placed there to bloom,
Your faith to become.

II.

Fragments and a fragment and fragments and a fragment
Of the shattered, elaborate and flamingo-roseate music box
Mod-Podged down, its melodious grace
Hushed forever.

III.

Papyrus butterflies, papyrus birds, artificials of things that fly,
Asleep in the book-box, awaiting your spell that will lift them.

IV.

Black spots of miniature abandoned fireplaces,
Huddles of kindle-slag, no bigger
Than buttons from dad’s cotton shirts;
Ashes from the fire-puller wand, which you said
Was only a blue moon, only when you were mad at us.
Only when you were mad only when you were mad only when you were mad.
You were mad. . .

Blue moons were just the thing you would paint --
Please, come home and show me.