Peach Tree Grove

A confession, A digression, A lesson in pain, Wisdom my mistress goes hard with the grain Of a straight birch from the yard, And by her I've made This little book on the table; It tells a dark-joying fable  Full of shadows and grit And heavy-laden wit And a bright, bright light  And a laughing, singing fight And a steel never broken, Truth's true token  Of Love against lying,  And look, the darkness is flying.

Black, burn, Twist, turn  Back and forth, Nothing worth The twist and the crack, The writhing pain, The black at my back And the derailed train Of my thoughts As I prance wide-eyed and wild  Lost as a child In a pumpkin-patch of briars As the moon climbs higher  Than common sense, and clear The smog makes a blear Of a mockery to haunt, To make my face gaunt  As my eyes flicker back  And the crack of the briar  Makes me flinch like a fire At the tip of the candle. Slow-drip burn, senses run slower Under the darkness of the Sower In the interrupted deafening of this silent night.