Butch Dogwood Surveys a Rain Ditch with a Curio Woman
Buck up, cowboy, Dimnah said,
enough Jesus on my walls will keep us wed.
Kiss me sweetly fore I pass out cold,
won’t be too long we’ll be too old.
How much is projected fluff
inveterate within the daily gulf,
robot suit on, robot suit off?
Victorian messages upon wires steal,
our eyestrings inviolably real.
Painted wires flail and spin about
like creaturely souls skating in doubt,
for meaning is but trembled energy,
a kettle’s susurrus on a spree.