it is in that endlessly cascading awe,
with mouth ajar,
and the soft spot behind the knee
folding sweetly
that desolation runs to hide
like a shrew,
in a meadow too dense to show its skeleton

these jests, flying through the hollows,
molded by tongue and tooth,
varying in sound in structure
through placement and growth,
sweet jests
tip horizons askew

veiled wings,
do you hear me?
you are destined only
to drift towards what illumines
the very room I lay in...

many say this is not your home-
they are wrong.