I guess I'm good at living
but no good at knowing
when you'll be in town
or at satisfying hugs
from last year and the one before.
When it comes together for us
now we'll be knee fucking deep
in a patch of slow-movers
and my chest'll be bleeding
flesh and blood and flesh and
blood needing flesh and blood
all over the place, dotted
with Mom's flowers from this season.
That's how the last two got started.
In the summer they've been rampaging
in a quiet way; they mostly stick
to their guns and stick home
and spend Saturdays with mason
jars affixed to the dash and
sun searing cigarettes away.
I'm in love with them
just like that, so don't move away
from the sea of wood and deer and
old cars and rifles out there.
