Wandering Underlands
You are something of a trickster: Now I see you, now I don't. Now we see you, now we don't. Now I see you in the vetch-mound's Fluted violet and white-lipped whisper. I see you in the ridiculous light from sour flower blossoms below Valley oaks aching for another spring rain (But I do not see you walking to me in the rain—strange). Good God, I have no one Thing I can ask for. I worry I am being tasked With a legacy of lack. Like a good teacher, you already know; I don't have to rasp out requests or quip quotations To you, the champ and the cantor Of syntax, for you are with words As much as in time, and you insist on a structure. You, bird in the morning, wake me at my window; You, monster of my nightmares I can't find But always fear. I remember talking to darkness When you appeared not to my sight But to my ears: a honey-heavy comb I was compelled To create as my candles burned out, spelling Disaster for my eyes I couldn't use anymore, Disaster for my garrulous tongue plucked from Me, my misspoken poems leaving sores in my mouth. I couldn't see or speak, but I could hear and sing, And you've tricked me again: now I have you, now I don't. When you master a syntax, you are with words In ways you cannot undo. And now I see you. I do and I do not. You are here. You are gone.



Ah yes, Iktomi, heyoka even…sometimes angel, sometimes like a demon…one can never be too sure.