In a state of chortle sin—once he reflected,

swilling tomato juice—live I, and did

more than my thirstier years.

To Hell then will it maul me? for good talk,

and gripe of retail loss? I dare say not.

I don’t thínk there’s that place

save sullen here, wherefrom she flies tonight

retrieving her whole body, which I need.

I recall a ’coon treed,

flashlights, & barks, and I was in that tree,

and something can (has) been said for sobriety

but very little.

The guns. Ah, darling, it was late for me,

midnight, at seven. How in famished youth

could I forsee Henry’s sweet seed

unspent across so flying barren ground,

where would my loves dislimn whose dogs abound?

I fell out of the tree.