A poet in Texas
gotta handle the pen
in the panhandle

Judy, basically,
was light problems;
a loyal girl
as I rode off
on twin rounds
'round White Rock Lake
on my orange Crescent 10-speed

and now she's been hid
for ten years
under a Baltimore tombstone
littered with little pebbles;

hard to grip, hard to grasp,
me still bullshitting
the material world,

my hands old
under my gaze,
my thoughts impatient;
rising like butterflies
out of lemon trees