but a commonwealth transplant
with no knowledge of brackets from birth.

My “bury” rhymes with “furry” not with “ferry”
and my “Versailles” now counts five consonants.

I’ve spent Ale-8-One* or two trying to wrap
my mind around a trifecta and the fact

that I have “state”-mates living on the Mississippi.
But I am from LexPoMo, where poetry

is throned and stanzas stride in greatest
honesty—melody and wisdom treasured

like a magic pen. In June, who wouldn’t choose
    to muse and fuse in centos
    to count the syllables and stresses
    to free the Cowboy from his sentence?

Alas, these thirty days will end before
we’ve said it all, and I’ll go back

to where my voice stands out,
wait there these long eleven months

till we sing again. Together.

* A Late One