[Goldenrod, I could say, you know, everybody wants something]

Goldenrod, I could say, you know, everybody wants something

from me, but, well, everybody wants something and nobody wants

nothing from me, goldenrod, towhead, beast. Goldenrod, you pack

the meadows like gold-plated sardines. I have heart palpitations

but all forms of relief end with a kickback, like my aunt with the black

eye who lied she was kicked by a horse. Free goldfinch comes to feast

on thistles in May and perches and weaves and sings of its political

exhaustion. Pisses me off, bird, to find out the devil from Sunday school

is real. I didn't even have my own Sunday school. Trespassed and thieved

art supplies and gibberish. Had I only tied the play apron around my waist

and faced the windy sun and watched your gold hermaphroditic wands sway.

Dumbbell that I was I sought a product called God though the whole village

was opulent with gilded heathens. Goldenrod, is your dying hard? I know,

I know dying's hard. Are you reaching toward, you know, or just reaching?