Yuck! In and out, snow in a gutter. Salted,
spoiled. Raked end, scorched earth.
Dog hair swaddled, short and blond
laundry hamper f

I didn't like the poem you sent me.

They speak of paradise, of spikeless thistles and
waist-grabbing over a morning stovetop
Now the beetles on Evans
wade in a bath of milk and honey
shake fist, tire marks on our jackets
I only written twice about you, everything else is mine.

XX