So pass your fraying basket, friend,
filled with naked, tarred and feathered men.
I will dump them into the Kaw at sunset, not far from soybean fields.
I will bury them under the soil wet with tears from Wyandot
and Shawnee ghosts still fleeing from the border wars to the Flint Hills.
I will bury them among bones of drunk marauders,
under switchgrass, in clay so deep no one can unearth them.
Together, we will sing the meadowlark’s tired song
and listen to the mongrels howl,
while broken sunflowers bow.