Twelve in Yellow-Weed at the Edge

Then, the police arrive — they don’t find me.
I’m disguised as a boy in a champagne wig
And hid inside the gold rattle of a warm Appalachia wind.
Beneath the trash of willow, I am. The sorrow
Of  trailer parks and carnie uncles. The poor
Girl’s underworld, a weedy thing. The night,
With its kingdom of  lanterns and awful blue lark.
How we waited, how we hid
Like wolves, in the revolving question of a field.

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