by Ross Robbins
And the first one tore a picture
out of an old issue of Redbook.
“I don’t look at all the way I want.”
Lonelily rolled down backroads
whipping great dustclouds.
Hip cocked to fire the killshot:
(kind of trite, as it turned out)
It’s almost Father’s Day, so I
don’t buy stamps. Instead I suck
oysters until my belly moans. Their grit
accretes on my tongue. Beginnings of
a continent. Continuity is overrated.
Blink enough times and presto!
you won’t see me anymore.