the foster child
of rampant insular lyricism.
I was raised wild
and came meekly to regard the moon
as a shotgun blast
from the mouth of eternity.
I, setting core to task, get greedy, rabid,
blood being a magnificent lure and cakewalk
for werewolves on the prowl.
My pupils enlarge at the sight
of unremembered lyrics, wounded, bluesy,
coming out of the woods
to find suitable placement.
I am, left behind myself,
a scorched earth child of second winds
and orphaned nonsense—
birth being a terribly continuous ordeal
of outgrowing origins.