Country Poem #26.

Swim flath the mercy tide obverse to myth yet reconstruct the pilloried, their harps-cum mouths abourne and cannot tear at their fleshes in any way to relieve the wind of its particle or the earth of its need or the memories finely-mistacured inside the gray meat which is so aflattered of itself, and hatred. I minse the durggery, those times we shared, the moon fat, my belly fat, the interlocutor and his winsome designs which stole your heart from the knotty pine where I had placed it and like a Machiavellian or an unconvinced Manichean he slipped it into his pocket and strode forth, and danced a jig, and made a big deal in front of everyone at the lunch counter as though his love, and not mine, was to light the fulsome season and the nested delights of afterware in the cottage's divine enclosure of candle smoke and your hands. I kilt him in my brain oh so many times I kilt him in my brains and the not killing him in real life portended foul luck for my future engagements, engagements as simple as attempting to jimmy locks, and take walks, and sleep uninterrupted for a partial of minutes, and my pee split into two streams more often than I fear it should have, stray hair or particulate invader, and there's no gossamer in anything that I see. If I had it to go back, a rock or knife, something materially inpusive and final, and the banshee-birds howling and sputtering down over his corpse. Like so many mens, like so many waters and times and energies foundered up through disparate bodies, the turned and yellow-dour error, the aching grog of lips that kissed the sun time once.