I got myself a cup. It was the end of water
and I was the last to drink. I was
a revolver at the bed of the dead woman.
It was the cruel month and I was
inhabited by nightmares. It was a dream
the color of children. I was
taking off from MIA. It was the time we
drove in circles until we got there. I was
extinct in everglades. It was unseasonable.
I skied through flambé or sorbet. I was
redhanded and tenderheaded. It was the best
and final cue. I broke into orchids and was gone.