Yours

The whole world belongs to you.
The other side of your forehead
is wrinkled because you wept
but mountains rose and valleys ran
over them anyway,
because; and the sun was sweeping
heroes off their hooves,
so they could taste the ground
with their shoulders.

What it is like to walk in their wings;
hanging from their halos
are carrions, playthings with insight,
spent on purpose; its
going spreads kindles under winds;
they pretend to run through forests.

Into you they go, 
swallowing into your poem,
your horse tinseled and parrot-heavy,
frosted by the glaze of your belonging,
taking it by you, to you; it's God
ranging from sweeping to slight,
scratching at the keys in delight
at his prodigy.

(The world is yours, final son,
missing no marks,
tampered with by no one else.)