by William Teets
I don’t love her; I love the thought of her.
Afterwards,
an old friend sells me bitter root of old age.
Grace saves the Madonna,
who will save us?
Byron and Shelley leave West Texas.
Botticelli paints orbs.
Jesus and Johnny Cash run butter and booze on a rumrunner through delta swamps.
I am on a Greyhound rollin’ fiery-side south.
Before my mother arrives in the night, too hot to sleep.
Before she can tell me, I was blessed in a bassinet.
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