Ask me about my howling
Weekend in a stranger’s bed.
Or what fleshed in morning—
What, hung like a malady—
The horizons held
Concordantly in la-ti-das—
In the hangovers
And the congress of all he does.
Ask me to leave
But to be left so dangerous
And felled like a dog
With a jarring woof
Or when passing
Old oaks on old roads,
Ask me why
Extinction is a coming
Of age. Or if I’ve had enough,
But never ask how much.
