I get up in the evening, dress
the buffalo, slip into its carcass,
a floor too cool for corn. I'm born again
as the Tennessee Valley Authority.
I'm not with you in Rockland, a fortiori.

It was the winter of the wayward clone.
The frontier towns were low on phlogiston.
I was a tiny acorn then but now
I mine the bay and trash the Finns.
My name's in all the magazines.

Little Bo Mercy in heels and hose,
just under the water she usually goes.
She moves grams and ounces, prays for war.
She's not the droid you're looking for.

If I could mmm like a mourning dove,
the bonny bears would know.
The final buffalo scrimps and saves.
I come on the uncut hair of graves.