i am hollowed out
and dully thumped against a
log. i am ached and split,
the paper on the sides of a thin
tin can.
where will the big one
rest? where will the coughs of mitre
saws catch- where will the dew recline in it's
sexual war against the sun?
my horn of plenty, my calloused
elbows
my greased bones hang from
the old hook in your garage.