Dear Cleo, I can’t complain about your absence 
Nor excuse my failure to call you sooner 
I mistook you for your sister and 

Damn it Graw you’ve got the sponge
on the wrong side of the ketchup bottle.
Have not shithead. And thus we drift

I wanted the gigando set in this corner here,
the 36 incher under the row of cornapples
hung just as the greasy greasy grannies done.

This is the repugnant part, where now
you covet the loss which a moment before
brought you the severed torso in the dream.

Into the flaming peach she sped.
Passing through fastnesses of flesh
Down juicy channels. 

We live in the heart of what can't be said.
These messages we are dying to deliver, to whisper
to you, reader, you beloved, you nations of the dead

while the palms touch and digits suggestively link
so movement of the hands of each
does occur

This was the year drought autumn never ended.
Rivers couldn’t float their barges, prairies
burned in a sulphurous caul, dead blossoms and clots

Salt me down where love was
on a blue burn to remember the real pain.
I’m worn out from my back’s arch and pull,

When it hit me. Fumbling for a smoke,
I sank down heavily onto a concrete bench

beside the circle drive. There was no view