Swanning for a rest,
 backcountry prepossessed -
  
 cannot in itself
 destroy or complete
  
 near shades of extortion
 where sorrows meet.
 
 Terror is an arsenal 
 availing of freedom.
  
 Old weapons 
 appropriate oceans of sky,
 
 waterwheel blooms
 I swoon alongside.
  
 My bloody-minded
 make mudholes 
 
 loves unnameable 
 treasons rejolt 
 
 turns and burns
 a migratory bulls-eye
 
 skin running and quaking, 
 the naked half wild.
  
 Beauty scattering 
 misty mayhem.

 Here vies my delinquent 
 starkly in wait
 
 for doubles
 snapping thunderbolts
 
 to spasmodically 
 incinerate.
 
 As sorrow aches
 to trust –
 
 and anguish turns
 to lust.