Let me drown you in the sorrow of our parting wrote the wild parsley
to the milk vetch on the rasa of our slate as the interstate drew fingernails across it
And a mialucka began a ghazal
per as per-
What is the Ogallala agua fer?
Or our wine that smells of wet fox fur?
Let me drown you in the sorrow of our parting.
And if beauty be amnesia hunting history
then let the drawn bow be our decree
moaning the mosasaur blues.
— William Emery