you scotch smooth, a stretched burning kiss.
and you midnights of scorchlight and
stars, we feeling small and we feeling large,
we fleeing from or to,
writers.
in writingless occupation: no lines of pure or dirt
to answer the question it was: to, or from. that was
always never uttered never wondered wanted known
until you yessed. yes you drew a
line. and yes from that taut place you sprung, and yes,
if not graceful, you were positively charged with power
and there you submerged. jackrabbit sharp
and into that under, that blanket burrow, that head down
and into that secret plain of broken twigs and rag, into the
unsplendid honor that you'd maybe'd for years while
riding buriden's ass on down to Abilene, for want
of other direction, protected from danger
or distraction or your everything, and but:
one hundred percent of zero is nothing. treasure that,
cowboy. my boots are on, and they're red.
