We are husks (for Grandma Rushton)

Down by the river banks,
by the medical bag,
and the white pots.

I think, I see, a black owl. That is looking at me through it's eyes,
through me?

(I'll never forget.)

Into it's eyes?

Why me?

I am not here, I say into the water. That glides, and blurps,
beneath itself?

Am I more than, this moment? Thank god, I am not. I am keeping a journal, about how the thunder claps, and the freaks, come out: to make orgys, in the rain.

I am a husk. Poor me, all burnt out. I can't be what I want,
And what I am, is in the for-sale window (he means display window)
down at mister Oh' Malleys.

Do I become the death, I wish into see in the tall grasses. Where, the fox, coos. Lord knows I tried. And did not try.

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