the burr of my poem

Quick children kiss us we are going through dream

- Audre Lorde

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I meeked the poem on to a sunspilt star, and it

growled        the purr of it was tinsel                        but I granted it                        my weasel and

it purred again        the burr of my poem is gone, or

has it?            we long for transitive verbs                        when we could easily                        be content with riddles

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We are going through dream and the children

know which dream to live & which to slay        the

song too knows but words get in the way -