Where hides the hood in childhood–buried where, by whom?
Who animates ghost crumb trails lost to fingers of leafy time
casts art’s poetry, memoir or history’s smokey sincerity.
But the curiously cured shank of hooded time stored in dark canals,
in brain crevices seeping imagery flattened and folded fit for life,
ages salty sweet in half notions nestled inside enormous desire,
full fledged and bloated with expectation un-dampened:
A six-year old, hair a twiggy tangle, growing to the wind, sitting
curbside, forming perfect patties from the meaty pliant mud,
shapes the real from earth and imagination aligned just so,
when nature taught her no bounds to science, only hands.