Eight red pills,
hidden with France in her drawer.
There’s another lilt on her,
and I draw it up, lissome and larkspur.
My hook or your bride
skeined around me, she smiles,
talks of you now and again,
sending me grillburns and gooseflesh.

Hey you with your words undone,
I’ll be the powerful one.
I’m ready to leave all this wreckage behind me.

A three-month smoke,
tripping around old jokes.
Dig a Carolina well,
brimming with seedpods and eggshells.
String my three-petal-clad clover tight,
this is a long, split night,
green in the feet
and red hands.

Caught on the down,
lop released leaf spun brown.
She has a moon’s hang and arc,
without my earshot or tongue-spark.