Noose

Away, where you can’t hear the Fourth of July news,
Where the moon sweeps across the grass in a swath,
Can she sneak in with a hammer, sickle and noose
And take your peace, your wheat, your cattle, your cloth?
It’s better that your life doesn’t rhyme,
It’s better that you entomb your sanity in cement,
It’s better that you be of love indigent –
(I said don’t rhyme!
Or does your love lie illiterate,
invertebrate yet inveterate?
If you can hear the cadences, then
Shake your vials of Vicodin,
Small maracas!)
Where do you place the buoy?
Where do you capture the flag?
Is the worth of your life now?
Is the worth of your life later?
Is the worth of your life never?
Whatever.
Hi-five them in cubicles, in educated tenors:
Good game good game good game good game good game.
Turn off the lights in all of your five rooms:
Front room living room kitchen hallway bedroom.
She will explode in black licorice,
She will write yellow brick road.
The prairie is big enough for the both of you to part ways.
Sleep tight.

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