Twelve in Yellow-Weed at the Edge

Then, the police arrive — they don’t find me. I’m disguised as a boy in a champagne wig And hid inside the gold rattle of a warm Appalachia wind. Beneath the trash of willow, I am. The sorrow Of  trailer parks and carnie uncles. The poor Girl’s underworld, a weedy thing. The night, With its kingdom of  lanterns and awful blue lark. How we waited, how we hid Like wolves, in the revolving question of a field.