Tom Tac's Running Sonnet

Like I'm a tongue in the mouth of the wind; In my face or at my back it moves me, A mouse in its pocket, or a weasel According to what present song it sings, Low and limpid, high or hollowly. It's seven minutes now; I'm still grinning Since no breath opposes in all this whirlwind.

Let this my hide be brown sun gold. Let this My body make a melody in muscle, Elevated quick when love crooks her thumb To the exit that's an entrance to sky kingdoms. As long as any snuff of wind can tone a whistle To thrilled ears, I'm a note in that mad chant.