once painted, the brushing
slipped to other worlds and wounds
I plowed down in hand to ©ee my signature in flower
the way ©icada grinned against the gap just then
her ©unted groove, a niche, was pressed
against the muddy tide
her titan organ, hidden
and their I learned the way things thing
they roll in thin
like painted wood in equal say in every
thing forbidden

forbid thee, O
but underneath thee, no
a foaming ©ee in silence breathes
it knows in memory this other voice in trees
whose come still lives unnamed and teething
underneath, undead
I forgot to ask you, do you want it
this cold, cracking life in mine
the way it tasted crisp as Christ

already crowning on the vine
christ-sick, but sinfully
divine

creature, I press
to thrive like you, incestuous
O My Delight, painted like a flower
O ancient love communion white
mighty old in ache with frost, my loss
spinisterly skirted
if you still want it
try find this whitéd wing I am
these three days darker

contagion
struck my soul

worn so
spelled out and spilled
the hurt and hurting, cold, dry
spray of winged unwanted me’s
me’s uglier and old in all the
witching wooded words, their singer green
the low sin, golded
& how shall I come find in this disguise
my loss & frost bereft I left
unwanted wooder in a hunted life
& how shall I your hecatean stealth
in hecatean health come spill
and spell the spill in me
i©y
O wooder in my ©unted life
my silent breath in thee
along the edge I live, forgive
such throw-aways in wingéd singing

little ones, you are my h’our
and, in the way you run
you are my flow’er

 

Hymn To Cicada, A White Stocking Tale