Weeds lash the twining shallow wash — seems Carmen’s
toy-boy took the plunge. Wonder what he sees
through silver’s mudthick emulsion — seems Hawks
has rung his paper stainer ‘cause Bogey’s bugged :
What’s he doing
down there, sipping
silt through his nose?
The blued bruise is
whose doing : black
jack or car whack?
Was he bumped or did he jump? — seems Chandler’s
stumped, and the wa-wa brigade’s tongues are
wagging, corpse on a rope — seems some joker’s
loosed shredded wheat to the wind, where
it dissolves, exposed
to the wash of light.
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