The media eye rolls
over the female body.
This is not everybody.
I find myself in front
of the cutting edge.
Hold the honing steel.
The oval, the opal, the
range finder fastened
securely to the barrel.
More than Mississippi
nights flow through
grassy boundaries.
Could this be big fur?
I’ll take the baseball—
paint your face on it.
Could be my home run.
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