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, â€”felt less
And more about less than us. . . ?
Nowâ€”tell me, my love, if you recall
The dove light after dawn at the island and allâ€”
Here is the story, Jack:
He verbed for forty years, very enough,
& shot & bucktâ€”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 backâ€”
In the taxi too, sickâ€”
Silentâ€”it’s so I broke down here, in his mind
Whose sire as mine one same wayâ€”I refuse,
Hoping the guy go home.