Far    away  from  all    the  neon  boulevards,
a  wet-winged    writer  is    twisting    himself
over      lonely    back-roads,  and      bonfire
ashes.  Only      one      sign  stood for  miles;
a  plain    liquor  store        white  illuminating
the    back  of    an  old  barn.    And you'll ask
why    his  poetry doesn't yet  bud  of popcorn
honeysuckles,  or      flow  like    the      bluest
cliché    of  river. And      you’ll  also  ask why
he shit  on your    pick-up      truck just before
sunrise,  or  why he  decided to  fly in      your
wife’s hair and  sleep.  The only place in town
is a liquor store; can you actually blame him?