I killed the spring

In much the same manner that a mother

Murders her bastard-cripple newborn

Pressing a pillow

Over that gaping archway

The thrashing skin smelling

Faintly of honeysuckle. I kissed

Its ten tiny fingers

Extracting the sweet juice from a still cage

Dipping my hummingbird beak

For its azure ambrosia, nestled in

The infant's secret caverns

Rosy crevices