It hangs over my mind
Like a patch of fog blowing numbly over
A scalp full of grass.
And it clings, clings, clings
And permeates
Into the milky dawn.
That's me. That's me.
Or what you choose to see-
Because, being subhuman,
I have no right to constancy
Or accuracy
Or identity.
Your secret is safe with me.
For what they choose to seek
Is to blot my existence
From palpability.
I know who I am.
I am the light
Blazing, slicing
White bright yellow
Night-extinguishing
Through kudzoo vines
And foreboding pines
And down the spines
Of every god forsaken plant in this muddy dell.
Lighting them up
You can tell
Where I carve my tracks
Because the light trails my footsteps
And clings to them
Like a misty, pure
Patch of fog
Over a scalp full of
Silk woven grass
Into the milky dawn
And it clings, clings, clings.