I was Lucifer, lost
Odysseus.



Now,
I, I, I



waste my life
in Pine Island, Minnesota,



fuck with the mailman
at midnight.



With you,
Mr. Hart, I find myself



still bored.

Each time I try to write my head,
I end up writing feet instead.

I’ve never received a telegram,
and now it’s too late!

The season has gotten old again, with a       price tag.
Birds lurch from the fields like a flock of       punctuation.

Between
BKK & BKO
an airliner flivvers to
ocean—some
illluck
god & misbegot that
took its arabesque to
bury there