me, down where the roots find
winding ways and secret water,
daughter of both silence and
random lightning strike.
I am hiding where you can't touch,
such a stand-offish lonely sort
aboard a black-winged bird
absurd and glorious in her particular
vernacular of singular songs and caws
jackdaws and crows
know better than a professor at his books.
I am hiding in the red detritus
I might as soon worship as any
many-strictured deity, and yet,
getting it wrong, being found out--
shouting and giving myself away,
saying yes, I really do reduce to
blues in the afternoon sung by
my own traitor voice on these pages like a kiss.
for Fussy Little Forms: Chained Rhyme.