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.