These ranchers are
nonetheless jolly, which,
whose noses turned in
rancor, rank in memory
nothing of the stinker
we expect. Oh, honey-
bush, you just hush.
Like these two fans
blowing at each other
all the way until dawn
and back again, we flip
ourselves over and around,
over and around this world
of blood-covered veneer.
It’s a queer world, you
and me and our blood-
curdling glee, holding
onto each other’s heads
for dear life, at least,
after all, until our
mottled carrion
becomes the
dinner that
we boiled
from break
fast all the
way through
lunch.
