Rawhide

Move on, we must.

In boxes and bins,
I carry my proxy love
to the Stow-Away garage.

Outside,
the smirking cat has his wild bones on,
drawing a bead on a tattered squirrel
that curves down the dead-bowed limb.

Night

In the lush bush,
there’s something that laughs.
Treed,
in a frightful dream it lolls,
fetching cheshire smiles.

~Move on~
the blue man says,
and we must.
I must.

But, there is no donkey tail to pin.
I’m blind, as i finger the braille
on this pincushion map.

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