Run now, Sundown—my pearl-strung son—run out.
You’re made. For heroic couples who meet
In darkness to make out blurred-out/burned-out
Slurs, sprint in spite—off to (y)our spurned retreat.
(Muah!)ters mislaid—azure-gartered, lapis-
(Th’)eyed—prey on-(t)heir(-knees), fall on laps of men
They despise—(a moment, please, for moms amiss…)—
Snack on Suspicion, and feast on Sighs, then
Run. Now, Sundown—my pearl-strung son—run out
And shout; and pout; and bequest clout; invest
What’s left of this—(Y)our Talent—and Redoubt
The fortress devoured by (t)his forest.
Love is a discomfort measured in Hertz;
A suit of hearts bleeding its Fleurs-de-‘B’
To the ground, sprouting in spades the sound, the words,
“Jono by Borden”, weeding Legacy.
A tyranny of bees forms a line these
Days in such a way. Life on the B-List
Never gets sweeter, they say, so son, please,
Tend to your garden as best you see it.