Jumping through the hoops of an emerald jungle,
a fawn; old lassos of shiftiness of being: tilting, swinging- from the branches-
the clicks of its follies, hitting against the pebbles of sorrows,
clacking like hoofs.
To each on his own.
I’d rather be a shepherd dog.
Restless but, stubborn like hell.
Guttling the innards of the mournful demons who came cloaked in a hoof dust
dusk- shrieking- I could tell-
Fuckers! They were born of my own.