My son holds a crocodile inside. A crocodile dwells inside my son, fully fledged, cajoling him to let go, to leave, to launch into orbit. Orbit the oozing bayou that offers him a fragment of freedom. Fragments of freedom lurk beneath the surface, and he is always hungry. He is always hungry, seeking sustenance and fills up with promises like eggs of lies, yet the famine in the forest fovea of his eyes wants more. His forest eyes want more, so he scrapes and scratches among the murk, then crams crawdads and crickets into the crocodile, even as he stars the sky and trembles loud limbic thunder. Loquacious limbic thunder chirps his needs, worming rain into him, as though worms can satisfy the hunger of a carnivore. The carnivorous hunger swells, but his crocodile legs claw back, and he is lost.