My mind is a twelve-fingered witch
rearranging air into flames—
learning innumerable routes
to your caves filled with sizzled sin.
My dreaming is disaligned, pinned
in a shadeless tree, lonely and
misunderstood. I bite the wind
like a black god of the desert—
and volts of blue light snap my woods
out of sight like a white prophet.
Your waved hair silks my ribs—gets hold
of my roots. I found your nude thigh
in haunted villages, ashamed
where the night suppers the last days.