Here is an elbow of a thought and here is an eyelash.
Voici: a hydrant where the thought pissed. Here it rustled
its leaves like rustlers’ jeans. And here it slept. On a bed of pins
and needles, babies. You can never be sure what this
greased ox is up to in town, ya dig?
Here are the thought’s shoe inserts; here are its laces.
Here’re its spats and here’re its faces. Here the thought shed
its skin with a glover snake. The antlers of it banged at the window
all lonely night, a friend calling you to elope. Tree of rope.
Here is the moon that did nothing to help anyone at all, all night
sierra tango foxtrot uniform.