I gave you a clock and you gave me bread.
I gave you a sack of rye: you pointed a gun at me instead.
Then we walked to a bend in the road. Then
I shook my wattle and told
You how much I think you chose the wrong gun.
You have a great collection—
So it definitely should not have been that one.
You stroked my nape and pinched my head, reticulated the dread
Dribbles down my ear like some god’s been sweated.
Like a redaction of red
You kissed me where my bloodpressure spikes;
And so it was we entered
The visionary drub rained down
On us, so close together, on the outskirts of a town.