Climbing the crotch of old shagbarks
xxxxxxas the memories of you rubbed raw
the Carolina winds of a troubled first kiss
xxxxxxpretending to be a far heart,
xxxxxxachingxxxxxxfrom the aftermath
of moonshine as it
feels better each time
the yellow catkins fall lonesome.
Tongueless hunger crawls out
from those days like a mourning fog
sunk into the greatness of
xxxxxxbeing eaten by this year’s
mosquitoes around the cooking fire.