Or

Eight red pills
Hidden with France in her drawer
There’s another lilt on her
And I draw it up, lissome and larkspur
My hook or your bride
Skeined around me, she smiles
Talks of you now and again
Sending me grillburns and gooseflesh
Hey you with your words undone
I’ll be the powerful one
I’m ready to leave all this wreckage behind me
A three-month smoke
Tripping around old jokes
Dig a Carolina well
Brimming with seedpods and eggshells
String my three-petal-clad clover tight
This is a long, split night
Green in the feet
And red hands
Caught on the down
Lop released leaf spun brown
She has a moon’s hang and arc
Without my earshot or tongue-spark