sticky and callused

feet dappled with the forest

the scent of green moss

sits down beside me

siphons off excess energy

to feed his black hate

the father’s shadow

can’t be banished easily

from the unknown bard

fearing the darkness

he seeks to warm his chilled hands

with a distant fire

quicksilver marbles

skitter on linoleum

bright, lost ideals

I am hyena

howling clear and bright to Moon

greeting all the stars

we’ve nowhere to go

we steal others’ holiness

all crystal-wavers

a brazen strumpet

hands folded, in a pew

listening to God

at lunchroom table

discussing birds, I recall

the taste of your lips

pressed within my mind

shadow of a horned man

dancing to birth Spring

take a look at this—

here I am, writing a poem

that’s not about you