To draw down the moon
when the moon wants down
whose boast’s that?

To crisscross the cross?
Flummox the salmon?
My brag’s straight:

just to wake for a sec
and not think die.
Just to wake, did I say?

But how, from this what,
where all eye’s stuck
to all dark’s palm,

and it’s not good mouth
but out of a butt
the next brag’s born:

to turn dog on my man
and go with the sun
in a wide open coffin.

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