or Jane if it please ye

Crap runs downhill.
Dies on a barstool
with a bright lemon
rind grinning in its maw.

Work is walking John,
black blood in his face,
ice flecks in his mane --
he's going to make it.

Bright line of the noon
horizon
versus a bent knife
thrown spastic

at dusk,
in oily fog. Thud.
Swallowed up
in marsh muck.

Pick.
Go on,
do
it