My mother has your shotgun. One man, wide
in the mind, and tendoned like a grizzly, pried
to his trigger-digit, pal.
He should not have done that, but, I guess,
he didn't feel the best, Sister, - feel less
and more about less than us ... ?
Now - tell me, my love, if you recall
the dove light after dawn at the island and all --
here is the story, Jack:
he verbed for forty years, very enough,
& shot & buckt -- and, baby, there was of
schist but small there (some).
Why should I tell a truth? when in the crack
of the dooming & emptying news I did hold back --
in the taxi too, sick --
silent -- it's so I broke down here, in his mind
whose sire as mine one same way -- I refuse,
hoping the guy go home.
Dream Songs
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