Songs From A Rifle

Lifting up

I slit the sky

But by the shame

Of stones

Go I

How the bolt sings

How the hairs sigh

But by the pain

Of Man

Go I

My hissing kiss

My tongue of flame

I am the first tree

I have no name

Of Grace

I kill like my father

And dress like my brother

He aims like his daughter

I dance like my mother

He is with me in these woods