My mother has your shotgun. One man, wide

in the mind, and tendoned like a grizzly, pried

to his trigger-digit, pal.

He should not have done that, but, I guess,

he didn’t feel the best, Sister,—felt less

and more about less than us …?

Now—tell me, my love, if you recall

the dove light after dawn at the island and all—

here is the story, Jack:

he verbed for forty years, very enough,

& shot & buckt—and, baby, there was of

schist but small there (some).

Why should I tell a truth? when in the crack

of the dooming & emptying news I did hold back—

in the taxi too, sick—

silent—it’s so I broke down here, in his mind

whose sire as mine one same way—I refuse,

hoping the guy go home.