ii.

Withering yourself on the guns of your forefathers
lashing your limbs to their metal ire;

you spoke like sun, shatter-dancing through
fawn-gold ears of
corn.

Desired to be—
hanseled.
Ridden through the forest, treading
on beds of wicker crumbs—
jesus, made of straw, cured with
red rhubarb.

And you're
pleasing the Man without use
of your hands,
tying your hopes
to his folderols and

c

u

m.