The wind melodies hard through the cotton         All I need to know       the dead cravegerunds with a desperation traditionally  reserved for rain                                 in another world I countamong those historical deadOne age stretching past kingdomcrown of silence     I have been mournednow live again elsewhere here’s whatI have done with it      I spit on statuesin front of men who own multiple knivesMen dressed like trees     their childrendream of deer and what it means to ownI make a sad defiance     of the escape given  I ride past rows of cotton    sun transfiguresthem    gills of the bleakest fish     O meadowof child’s fists     O violence that grows intoa more efficient violence      I’m some other town’sghost story      Their knives moan my name    whetstone             bride of historyAll their love is cleaving in any other languageI walk beneath trees   become the moon’s sharpwhistle    Violence is not my only name    Yet all the menI find in foliage    look at me and whisper   Come true   Come true