flowing with feces the size of sequoias.
Delicately they destruct in air and
spread like dandelion spores in Spring.
Wiseguy moon looms lecherous over this green ball
winking and chortling at our commonplace perversities.
Black is the color of my love's true hair all right.
The fog that never lifts. The wound that never scabs.
O great gray mother tell me what I have done
But be to deserve this lovely bleak oblivion.
