Write me a poem, he said,
About love and the end of time
And nail it to the hickory tree
In the fence row behind grandma’s house,
Where the coyotes won’t see it
And make fun of me. Howl them a tune,
I said, and make sure it includes scat
And rabbit fur and somnolescence
So the moon will let it strum in its light.
Design a new set of clothes made
Of peppermint tins and twine
And let it rattle down the journey
Of the creek-swept banks into this day.
Everybody knows life works best as a verb.
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