Why bury your wildness?
Honor that rakish salvation
from soap and Jane Austin.
It’s neither silk purse nor
sow's ear. Why bother with
some chase across Mongol steppes?
Tunnel worm holes into
a ninth dimension later.
For now study your own
notions of life and duty -
how easily they fill with
dust like puddles in August.
When you neglect the beveled
lips of crystal framing you
with feral kin, your light
bends obliquely from this
nebulous sky. When you
giggle madly as a pod
of girls in skirts scarlet and
billowing, veils swing apart.
Holding patience like April
holds spring, this good earth desires
your seed and feathered song;
desires timid fingers
to probe iron laced fissures
that map your fault line. Follow
the dark thread home; nose to wind,
chase sanguine urges. Crave
the Golden Salmon roasting
on hot coals. The best morsels
wait for your hungry tongue.
It sings to your wildness.
Don’t bury her again.
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