fell flat
then threw the graze—
and did this at noon
and said it at one
lunch on the radio
again
don’t know a body in a square mile
-
in song very nearing
hot dust of home:
“motacilla, oscine,
wagtails, and pipits . . .”
ghost grid kid
sat picking them off the rack
round about a quarter to two
-
as cicada would fable
a possible horror sound
heretofore vowing
as hated carburetor burns
from three to four or so
tits in tank top tubing
an apple core
rendering ensnares asunder
-
strong Kansan formula
bug corpses on genteel porches
something so middle southern—
at seven at strange with it
he died of
stalk of weary entrance
through his sunburnt heart
-
hard to sleep through
such a hot one
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