to where it bent in the undergrowth,
the path less traveled,
etched blueberry stretch marks,
on my stomach and pits,
bit the bluegrass tweedling mosquito between my toes,
shattered my overgrown knees with hoary ice picks,
grew needles swift and thin through my spruce-ed up nose,
seared butter and flour blind into my eyes,
screamed a cursing baying cayenne into my ears,
scalded the tongue with vodka, garlic, and banjo fried,
but left my heart,
to the feasting, howling, pack-crazed hunger,
of the never-evening, somewhat summer,
always winter, lonesome, yellow wild eyed,
cry.
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