Un-glossed

Would this word open,
this sad skeleton spin
let me crawl fast inside
to hollow crimson cobwebs,
me a pilgrim in the space
of its solemn prayer.

Would serif tip a cap or two
and then its needled pate,
why then crook its knees
if only for me,
to see what it was, would be
when it was born misread.

And then willingly would I
fall where it was led,
with a trail of tears, blackened
in wooden skin, dry across
my time-whipped tongue.