Lungfulls of dusk, bandit
water hitting our soles.
The moon has its halo on.
Chainsaw, sing elsewhere:
I know this south-facing hillside.
Pressure releases my
springtime purgative, and
I wrap my bulbs in burlap.
Dear, I am surrendering
my eye patch. Beware
what you tell me. I am no good
at hushes, edge.