Once beautiful you run with the Paint Horses and blonde fox of the pine barrens and oily lake laurel, the lemon colored prairie ink and gorgeous orange stalks of chainsaw thistle, a nocturnal lust and blue outfit electrocuted among the holy and yellow-assed fireflies, a paralyzed sea of wayward bot flies and priestly, immoral skulls quietly asleep in the Moscow River, worse than my madness poem is my silent heartache and trembling song, delighted pink and presh, black syrup and wounds bleed fresh, red gluts for our red marrow inside our red bones, September the 7th, penned loneliness next to a fallen and gut shot tree, scorched and abrasive bark, your burial ground chosen as an adolescent at the forest's edge, a place to catch spiders to house in lavish green and gold flowerpots, your chin-scarred orchids and small, round broken face hidden underneath thick-rimmed glasses, some no bigger than grass-tops.