I am twenty-five years old and still stumbling over
the mudwasps working something furious in my throat,
trying to form fists that are both heavy and light
enough to fit around their straight shooter smiles.
I haven’t quite gotten a handle on it all yet.
But I can weave whittlespeak timbre
over sun-spilled porches,
stitch leftover lines into novelties,
and bend the sky beneath
all of the whitespace I’ve
ever written into existence.
My fists will never stop buzzing banjos,
and my voice will never stop searching
for any shape of consistency.