Twelve-fingered Witch

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.