O come to my crown of palms
and saint them;
tipped and plentiful,
a bucket of loam
burying ill-gotten claims.
O come and sprawl over and over...
a smug lady
A bent back for hurried flurries.
The full burst of horizon light
in the keen cock of the whip
and pain about the temples
like motes of touch, like thrips.
Born as I am in the scope
of your incendiary grasp
burnt as I am, down to ashen alder
rising as I am, glorious phoenix:
manifest of your will.