we had to stop, dawn broke night’s perfect shell,
far from the road, in ocotillo brush
stacking skid marks while dodging wild pig,
vultures swing high, sing lyre and beer can,
grapefruit night slips away with purple knife
tenderly swaddled in old newspaper
here asphalt sticks like wet toilet paper
all that prickly pear and shotgun shells,
poking around this desert with a knife
too hot now to go ‘round tickling brush
so sit and try not to move if you can
just like a penguin, smart as a pig
river jump, a coarse javelina pig
playing cello, full set, made of paper
some mountain lion, thunder in a can
sky blue hold water, mind grinning shell
wire afternoon, the color of brush
whistling a name, Hot the butter knife
under the sun, doing the twist, the knife
you, born of the same mother, feral pig
ask cosmetically, how far? loaded brush
through a screen, in a thin voice like paper
the devil you know beats a stranger’s hell
domestic as pineapple in a can
knowing the occasion, meaning of, can
commune the red room set the carving knife
there is nothing, but mounds of oyster shell
old world devotion on this rusty pig
rains come and everything’s made of paper
the closer to skin the better the brush
what water left to share is in this can
each direction looks the same on paper
besides, sand ruins the cake, dulls the knife
one who knows, who is, close they say to pig
contented to be once more in a shell
ready in scrub brush to make for great shell
willing with paper to give up the knife
able and I can, never end with pig
