Paul Sylvester Poet I do not know?

Asleep In a Haycock

Jack got up at two
O' 
    clock.

felt his breath - stopped.
              legs buried
a foot within
           a sock without;
        he had gone about

all day and fought
the spray of bullets meant
for a dashing hare

instead a father
with wisping hair
sour breath
and fragile heir

had kicked a load
of cold buckshot
into the leg his
bod had birthed

novel and lurid cause for his tacit mirth.

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