Barking at the Moon

Mar 16

Torn between
sobbing and rapt attention to the words

bloom-washing onto the walls inside of her eye,

she painted her own life in the most literal way she knew

she was
The Favorite of a Queen
in her youth,
before she was a
Gendering
Aristocrat Poet and Emissary
to Constantinople,

the frames for her to be an
Epitomy of

Man, Woman and Child, Lover,

of Humanity- exploritory and otherwise-

and after four centuries of
a life documented as a river would
peal forth
she finds herself at the top of that old hill

to wander amongst the vivid detail of
ages bored into the oak
the shadow of grain

that the culmination of her person,
(dropping leagues into her perception),
allows her to see all dimensions of her
endlessly multiplying existence

to be her self
and every person she is

to be the beginning and end
of oneself

to know no bounds
within