Dog Eat Dog

Maryland’s Eastern Shore, around Christmas./ You could feel warmth enough./ We wander with Pisser and Lefty./On our way toward Pikesville, /sobbing in the hollows/we pause at the ramparts: this desolate farmhouse./My brother trails past me/a gaze through the trees:-I know right where we are,/on a creek famous for flies. Another spot where I make love to my dying wives./To follow his echo,/ right where I slept outside/I could hear his faint rhapsody, his lullaby./He whispers:-tell me were your future lies/you’re so chock full of alibis./Our grins punched holes in the night.

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