Put out to pasture—stretch out, gallop, nuzzle,
side-flop down into clover and
semi-wild pastoral greenery, alternate to the glue factory.
The chase is on,
that hysterical relation to desire, drop the handkerchief and expect
to be pursued. Lily
of the valley, tiny bell smell, the snail leaf curl in dark corners,
ferny, thrilling tendrils
of something. Read me? Over and out. Riding in the car
from Ohio to Florida he taught
us songs like “Off we go into the wild blue yonder . . . hell of a roar
. . . flames from under.”
