“Legend of Winnebago”
Cross hairy arms
the saint of scars
is heaven-scent
and angels cry their wings.
Past schoolhouses,
bitter misers,
schoolmistress shooting up,
the tarmac deciduous,
the bishop’s perm,
stone gargoyle
the pasta of intestine
roving to mimic
starving to startle
weird scars and markings
behind your mirror
of make-up scraping evenings
the end of a dream.
Let the lock sleep with the key,
it’s his turn to let the mouse
nibble and run
from frightened dust mites
the tongues that shield and shadow
an eerie memory from boyhood
a parchment night, amber
the color of the aged paper moon
copper beneath dresser drawers
only the trolls discover
rust left the boot heel stiffer.
nicholauspatnaude 
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