(sea) urchins crawl back to sleep in
a forgotten embrace,
shelled by the bombs of a salty
tide they escaped for now, for then;
sitting on the granite benches,
they wonder at the diffused
light that molests their eyes.

futile to escape,
yet the cannonballs of their tears
bleed down the rugged cracks
of the cliff faces -
run, run, run,
until the man whips the flight
from your wings,
little shrew,
little bird.

did you fight till the beginning?
did you run past the end?

whisper words of wisdom -
of comfort, and dream of the bells
on a hill that you could never see.
but the beatles are beetles and
they're clawing their way up along
with the other man-monsters,
climbing the dips and curves and valleys
of your waist till they reach Neverland
(this will never grow old)

it sleeps for now.
it will awaken again.
ignore it, refuse it,
and it will pervade your skin
as easily as the rust from his
Midas' touch -
but all that glitters
is not gold,

and you are no longer precious.