That heartless finch, botulinal. An official wheeze passes through the screen door into the night, the vision of her finally dead. I've decided here in Chico, Montana, that Nixon isn't president and that that nasty item, Agnew, is retired to a hamster farm. And that those mountains hold no people but geologists spying on each other, and beasts spying on the geologists. Mule deer die from curiosity - what can that thing be wandering around with a stick, forgotten from last year? Some tourists confuse me for an actual cowboy, ecstasy in deceit, no longer a poet but a bona fide paper buckaroo. I offer a twenty-one-gun salute to the caress as the blackflies buzz around me and the rotting elk hides. The true source of the stink. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET TO A CLAM by JOHN GODFREY SAXE THE EBB AND FLOW by EDWARD TAYLOR VANITAS VANITATUM, FR. THE DEVIL'S CASE LAW by JOHN WEBSTER THE HUSKERS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER A BIT OF MULL by FREDERICK HENRY HERBERT ADLER THE OLD FERRYMAN by ANTIPHILUS OF BYZANTIUM |