The Lieutenant Colonel
You are my unself.
Centered Anglo-Dutchman,
mail-order chariot driver.
Blood, rain, steam,
nothing holds you back,
not even a saber-toothed cow
coming yaw-haw from the barn
like a tent show.
I am trouble-haunted
at this desk, this typewriter,
a spoon of bath salts between
me and the carbine.
My sin is a garnet thread.
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