Water is poured visibly and audibly into the font.
I made the world so you’d have space to play
till night, but you have not returned for supper.
I searched for you while worried sick to death.
I took your invitation to explore your desert.
The time it takes to grow a tare on stone.
But now it’s time to swim us all back home.
It’s legally fulfilling but I cannot claim its fun.
but plunge, I will, into your jealous sludge
and harrow, harrow hard, I will, your eels,
they imp and troll creek bottoms, seign for souls
a-slurried, who they toss toward your bucket.
The minister may touch the water.
They’re mine! I spout into the sun, retriever wild,
Desporting precious ones as plunder
And I’ll bear them gone, violent on your violence.
What wings unfurled are like unto my wings?
What talons bite, what muscled flight can bear
Such prey? Your lair is dried and skinned like earth
Before the strings were stretched or dragons hatched.
Those bringing infants may now approach the font.