a bating beauty,
a man-hatched duty,
the hurly burly
her countenance surly,
side coalesce,
her dress, what a mess,
she lit a wildfire at the Rio Grande,
was at roasting a goat,
here a half-drunk sleepy-eyed man,
field of vision four inches from his nose
She pointed at the heavens,
and it was all aglow, radiant,
her eyes waxed cold,
he waxed indigent.
That bating beauty,
and the billy goat with his crazy eyes.
We found something at the remnant store,
a reversible with two designs,
one on each side,
and Morgan Freeman ready for an advertisement spot.
I watched an armadillo,
shelled back burning, stinking,
and her still pointing,
the wildfire hissing, singing,
I saw the glow of the fire,
in my mule's dull eyes.
There were livid embers
in my own thought-dead dinner fire,
and those could be collected
to be put next to the bedroll.
I wondered if I had put stones,
stones in the fire,
then nestled those with me
under the blanket.
that bating beauty,
the wildfire she did see,
as she pointed the constellations,
she would name them for me.
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