Thoughts from a Thinking Girl

Inured to the fine veins of your being,

I am crisscrossed by brutish passageways

carved by pickaxe, blasted by explosives

a dusty mound of gravel sifted

sorted, poison-bathed in sodium

cyanide, reduced to sludge to be skimmed

smelted, gilded aura separated from

base silver, acanthite washed clear off.

That which time has melded

erodes my market value.

Aged and mined to near desolation

still there is the crimson flow through

the colorless venation map, blued by light

penetrating my skin. Drumbeat and birdsong,

the knob-tailed calico next door, your hand

guiding me into ochos, and this constant light,

for these I willingly open for plunder.