[APPLAUSE]
I am Phoradendron californicum.
[LAUGHTER]
Of that first fall, how much flight
born of or with these wing, thousand wings?
Upright stood house of morning songs, stood an office
along the first lit branch, clung at then
threw, but off of the center of those dot-pink take-thief
for drops.
My red eyes might not then offer the jaw-trapped juice
or off the kiss crest where of the wind is born trill.
Top tree aloof over which way lord silk, silky robing
wish after all of the black bottle black fly flies
of those old, oldest stories not, but nearer as
of the last gnarled kiss.
Holiness that form never knew, yet the branch
of the gold and bow.
The mist on the tongue is proof.
Phainopepla too.