Yuck! In and out, snow in a gutter. Salted,
spoiled. Raked end, scorched earth.
the ***** are in and I chose wisely

I didn't like the poem you sent me.

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

XX