Cut me loose.
Toss this box in the swamp.
I want to smell bra** through the pine as they play that second line.
The knotted buzzards speak to each other in cryptic verse.
And if I ever could translate the riddles
I would shake.
This fanfare has anchor.
The horns shout,
"It's a rat! Where will he land?"
"Probably in the ground."
The bugles buzz like gossiping flies and trace circles over the lids of my eyes and the dancers stir up the air until they disperse.
And they hold no promise.
But I will hold my breath.