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.
   

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