he shot the swine between the eyes
while she bathed in the ice-cold trough out back
there’s no silk like the edging of clouds
or fuel as useful as the scorched fruit trees
horses loosed on the wind-swept
plain of powdered zinc,
wick burning low as burlap works to towel off,
her eyes greenly marbled,
the raw earth holding erect
a spine calling flesh a man, his boots mud caked
By Jay Passer
