If life’s light, 

labyrinth dapple illumining
newts and roots in some
rude wood, then
                                  you’re
        those impressions of
    berries and terry-cloth-
  fairykin fanning the will
o’ the wisp—that’s
 
not to suggest some
frantic flame foul 
water fowl, cramped
green herons, or envious 
cavefish, straining their
scales against virginal flints, flicked,
siren-lithe light left licking that
lip of some snickering precipice—no,
 
the will o’ wisp thus draws us evermore
homeward, stars stirred dappling up among
bubbly rubble that, suppling, spreads 
 
beside your sole like 
gashed and rattling
light combed into this 
jodeling halo.