Little soul, pulled
down like a drum. Hook-line.

Sinker. You swore there was gold
at the bottom of the lake, that the lake

wanted you to wear its mossy skirt.
Yes, you looked gorgeous

in firefly hues, the moths pitched white
as barrettes in your hair. Little air,

little sediment-coated tongue.
Holy Nothing is a trickster:

oh to be young, yes young, 
and lopsided in faith.