Scrub

Scrub, eked out
in a tableau, thus

as if Morricone had
given up the ghost.

So, back. 'Way two
conveyances playingly

race-draft. One
in front for some time

then curtailing back.

To the point that pupil
indistinguishes from iris,

shirtsleeves give way
to a bit of calf?

and what next?

Eagles mating with silt?
Pinecones and foals frolicking?

I am getting drunk.

Right. Could've thought
it would be $750,000

from here on out, that
the disturbance was

evidence of a human path,
not the confused starling

failing to launch around
in underbrush for some time?

Even this 4x6 color printout,
garish with it's back and white

affixed with color blush,

an old photograph grainily
reproduced us. And

how the way we were
then; affecting a buffont,

cleaning under fingernails
with the emory board hook

from a set of clippers,

gesticulating uncomfortably
in the snow, just

having sullied something.

This was hard fought; we
wrought a sculptural mountain

of it, Tatlinly; babbling. He

was not so much a scrub
as lacking in some capitals

as we all are.