Buckshot,
thank God,
it got me not.
Farmer John,

the Budweiser
boys, sure
as shit, they hit
the broad side

of the barn.
Of course,
they swore
there were six

tits on a boar.
Whole hog,
summer’s hot
hodge-podge:

bachelor button,
creeping jenny,
forget-me-not.

Harm, Sir—
scarlet geyser,

dead inroad,
the entrails’ ode.

O Mother Mortis,
you bitter, rigorous

toad, your tunnel
blind as the mole

who went before.
Dr. Onlooker,

what for this wet
wound unloosed?

Wooden Tooth,
Broken Star,

& forget
the hare.