a witch is made witchier by a weird dripping tree

& i’ve 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 with tenderness, yea, Connotation Press, Mead & more. He conducts interviews for Tell Tell Poetry, and would be delighted to meet you on Twitter & Instagram @timlynchthatsit.