Passing chianti and slinging the blade,
                                                                   so long, she sang, so long lady dove, lady
                                                                   dove, and her doooove man, the moose!




She slew pyrotechnics in her garden 
so as to obviate another barbeque 
with the neighbors

Yellow pools remain near window frames
quenching thirst for mud drowned tubers

where their mares would come
every morning
to lap up her hyacinth roots

a drop of blood pasted a wing case
to the candlestick
abandoned near his lawnmower

It wasn’t their mosquito song
or their possum booty, but
she was not going to stuff
another sausage 
with parsnip and garlic paste.