I know I don't know, where are your tickets
and passport, did you lock the back, dig holes
for the children, sleep me off in a tree, away
from Jesus and this awful species, with oars-
men for the friction, the water-weight
of weakness, a skeleton bell and slumber
with witches from a place you've never
heard of, and the dawn announcement
of a bantam machine clocked with an axe
on a lamppost near the cemetery gates behind
this town, when will they cease the upkeep
of these gardens of iridescent skin, bullion
fringe from bone shivers, a solemn history
belonging to a callipygous clerk of twenty
and gouged eyes of game, just a sport-fuck
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