the burr of my poem

Quick
children kiss us
we are going through dream

– Audre Lorde

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

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 –