I’ve been burned and hung and stoned and drowned.
Now I’m no-where seen or found–
but the prints of my twisted feet wind paths
through every woods and farm and street.
Wild birds sing my names.
My fingers redden the moon.
My time-bound children, I tell you this:
I’ve made a story of my own.
The bees are mine, the iron wheels,
the sun is mine, the grave.
Mine are the tides, the old white roads,
maggots and leaves, willows and snow.
As touch or breath melt ice and frost
my images transmute.
Every shadow has a glory,
each blossom a wide and darkened mouth.


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