Dream Song 34: My mother has your shotgun. One man wide

 My mother has your shotgun.
 One man, wide
in the mind, and tendoned like a grizzly, pried
to his trigger-digit, pal.

He should not have done that, but, I guess,
he didn't feel the best, Sister,—felt less
and more about less than us .
 .
 .
 ?

Now—tell me, my love, if you recall
the dove light after dawn at the island and all—
here is the story, Jack:
he verbed for forty years, very enough,
& shot & buckt—and, baby, there was of
schist but small there (some).


Why should I tell a truth? when in the crack
of the dooming & emptying news I did hold back—
in the taxi too, sick—
silent—it's so I broke down here, in his mind
whose sire as mine one same way—I refuse,
hoping the guy go home.

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