Boys in shorts
will be the death of me.
Here and always Sunday,
I cannot help if I rise of God—
or act a parliament to
Boys in farm life, etc.,
and of the gravemaker down Grand.
I have left business
up to the dead—the dead without
their businesses, their deaths of them, their boys
for example, or lives.
Oh, why not make us this
nothing we have for us
a hell to come to?
This is where a love is starting: you.
I think that we should be tequila
and let heaven be
the pity we've made.
You buy the white horse
just to sell it back. Pale cigarettes and sanctuary.
Tuft of fur at your throat,
tuft at your belly
below where each breath that you swallow goes.