a witch is made witchier by a weird dripping tree
& iβve become a crow in the fog
capable of murder, laughing at the roots
under sweetness of dead peaches
endlessly stemmed, irregular drool
like a hand but never quite hands
piling my skull cap to run down my back
a thick stream hunting for shape, itself at times
enough for itself, slugging from claw to mud
& the witch sits in grass, her gold shoes beside, gold
heels & fog, the laughter & the raw
heart spit on a branch
Tim Lynch has directed various workshops for young writers through Rutgers University in Camden, NJ. His poems have homes withΒ tenderness, yea,Β Connotation Press,Β MeadΒ &Β more. He conducts interviews for Tell Tell Poetry, and would be delighted to meet you on Twitter & Instagram @timlynchthatsit.Β
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