Bless You, Father Walt
for lying stripped and singing
in the floes and fallows of your own body.
For granting us land-rights to your shaggy unkempt tongue
where through long syllables of scarlet leaves
we ride shanks-mare, drunk on the public road again.
Oh, bless me, Father Walt!
Lend me your large boots to caper and hoot at dusk,
make me shameless and grandiose, tender and foolish and brave.
Bless this false coin I use, stained as tinker’s ware –
turn it to tigers resting in the shadows of my mouth.