Do the Twist

In Ohio, we walk along
Serpent Mound to remember

what mysteriousness feels like—
All night we hear superstitious

hills whispering hymns along
the tree-line—But still no

answer to what makes
the wires in roots cross just so…

Not the only thing crumbling
to mud: no tolerance for the way

she talks about fingers in woods,
more than fabrication allows,

filters. When the bark stops
shaking, I’m willing to be the one

to find out—cigarette burns, always
perfect irises without second sight,

don’t trust me, not yet, I’ve
been bending backward my whole

life, spine full-circle…Why
should it perform differently now?


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