This month will end
on a note. I have counted

my advantages. Good women
drunks line up in two.

The grove between think and behavior
declines before it lets

open. The women want
exposure to an already fallen problem.

The bed corner sinks with it. 
I know the last bottle includes

what comes with the bottle:
the bump of a moving rabbit, then

something larger, a bear.
Speaking of. Where is her gun?

I saw ducks through the barrel.
Twelve more went on her watch.

This, she said cocking, is the word
“Round.” My face was Alice.

The women wear netting, cream
lace, one layer. I introduced

the bear to the bear. She asked me
up for mezcal, we had mezcal

and beer. I took my ointments
off with it. “Right now,”

she said, “you are aging
like an onion.”  A box fan

can suspend nearly one
hundred liars. I’m one.

And once I knew it,
it never mattered.