. . .running riot through red rooms.
As she dances she sings with sweet sickness of her lost love.
I knew a sea once
Here is what color cannot do,
unmask the homeliest form.
There were words straight as corn,
I breathe a perfume made just in time.
Can you draw the sap from a wild cherry tree?
Everything we’ll ever know
takes off it shoes, wiggles it toes
. . . faith moves the world in a little wheelbarrow.
When Midnight comes,
it’s saintly as the dog
wading in the stream
of the Very Odd.