twang
there's always
a Westward twang
hidden within lines and lines
flurries of a mess of notes
and they are so organized
like a row of neat little rows
or an assembly
of vining vegetation
i forgave myself a thought
because i am learning
and what runs within the vine
accompanies the outer casing
precisely like you sat under
an overwhelming emotional burst
of sap and serpentine
bless the pine
and the crackling oils
how you've accompanied yourself
/poems/