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;
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…