Don't worry about me--
I'll lay low.
I will keep my wicked thoughts tucked into the roots of my hair,
and my hair will spread and rise and wave in the wind
like a black prairie.
Crows will come out of my cogitations.
How long will those window panes of yours keep them out?
My Goddess, but they're noisy.
They are made of bibles and molasses,
and they want to sink their sharp parts into your lazy dreams.
Don't think you did anything wrong--
I would never say so.
Still, if I were a scarecrow such as you, I would soak myself in gasoline
and lean into the sun just as it goes down.
That will be your only chance to shine,
so you really should grab at it, like someone falling.
My hair can be your landing place,
full with baby crows just itching for their first disturbing instinct.
They will love your eyes,
just as I did when I walked the earth, up and down,
a baby devil so pretty it made you look.