A Pretty
Good Ditch
In
deer tongue, speak to me of summer
warming
rim of trapdoor sun flowering
rayless
across polygala lute-strung tunes
spun
in open worship, lovely blueheart stung
awake
by bristle, by brine and horrible thistle. Now
be
gentle with me; little metalmark stretch out
the
white headthoughts and their trains, longleafed
and
violet as spindle veins; break me away
from
fear bane, flea blame hopping
from
name to name, no mercy in ladies’ tresses,
orchid
on the grave of indoor friends, wooly
with
mullein comfort and bogged in buttons,
zippers
spidering up the guts of judges’ purses
webbing
over sundew, dwarfed by the towering
warts
of saints, johnpaulpeter and their bobs
for
gaura floating in the oakleaves. Now
I
am gone from church rooms and the greymile
tombs
of highways, out
into
the Temple.
~Feral
Willcox
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