In the curly corners stumbling / by Reckon

The angry margin must escape from illusion.

To escape from illusion illuminate;

Solve the problem.

Take it out of the city to a country tree;

apricot, peach, anything you see or make a new fruit.

Ripe ones, ripe ones here by the highway booth;

Cobra sly-eye,

Antiseptic bee cave stew;

Cowboy’s just tongue and rock star’s roadkill avatar;

Smoke words begin to tease passersby in speeding cars

Sprawling chainlink in whitewashed tires, homemade icing, cream, antifreeze;

In the curly corners stumbling I buzz about salt

and grass three shades of ivy,

hunter-weed to the edge of umber,

these acres with their silvery ice-water wells & wooden ladders

climbing up billowy sky which is why I bother see

which is why I salivate which is why I…