The dragons fluke like a gauntlet choke

Memorizing the tornado through its ghastly

Rasping voice, gasping for the air that flies it.

Its wings caught as low winds fall behind.

Tighter the noose of clouds singing, while

Choice plays center stage and is guilt thereof.

Of saying yes to the no's and no to the yes'.

I asked her about Gideon and she smiled.

That wry little smile that lovers hold aside.

Hoping for a God damn winner of ecclesiastical

enthusiasm for everything in particular in her

churchless sky of hopes and missionaries gone home.

She bore that Gideon like found gold no one knew.

Carried it when it strangled her, held it when it

was the only thing true, and loved it deeper

Than the notion of herself or his self

And the spring blooming twig in the great birds'

Mouth tasted like wine and french kisses

and moonbeams inside a woman's secret.

Am I not the dragon?