But am I sure?

                               Why do I see a crown

idling over her head,

                                                is
she a queen of it

or even more?

                               Did I hear her first

in the wilderness,

                                      Old
Mill,  Murray Hill, Joshua Tree?

The crown persists,

                                           her forehead fits

so this must be the one,

                                                    I pull

with all my night

                                      the
stone from the stone

and veer hard

into her royalty.

                                      Because
these stories

live us still.

                        And not just me.