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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.