kiln-brazened and true

A Song of We

We are the ones with gas-station air

In our tires vended with bottom-

Of-the-washer quarters.

We are the ones wrapped in raw

Hide with will-pumped marrow,

Of crossed fingers and amulets.

We belong to each other

As ribbons to gifts, gifts to ribbons—

The garnish and the entrée.

Who are the gun-strapped ones, the venom-

Spat ones? The ones who lop

Heads with scythes and stake them high?

Not I. Not you. We are the baked ones,

Kiln-brazened and true, bug-eyed

And wary—wearied and worn.

Can you see the wilderness?

The river and the cypress?

We can meet between the canyon walls.

We can speak, rehearse, map escapes

With chew-chiseled pencils on stolen,

Work-place stationery.

Who will stop us? The sworded, the bayoneted?

The long-bearded wise ones—cavernously

Wrinkled and waiting on death?

Not us. Not yet. We are dastards.

Yes, and villains; yes, and acrobats;

Yes, and stalwarts. Yes. We are.