Poem in which I am captured. Again.

Hearing dogs and jack-clad footfall
they set off, calling “Guard the gold haul.
By the way, we’ll need the rifle.”
Handclap, shoulder, hello bare cell.

Playing Patience, twigs in helmet,
the avant-garde off on some gamut,
I trotted off to squat a moment.
“Not so fast.” Lights out. Godamnit.

Whispers in the hilltop heathers
took away the muddied others,
not to mention all the daggers.
Ambushed, bundled, rats for brothers.

Satan, ooze out of the orchard.
I’m alone and hollow-holstered.
Enlist me in a decent hell-horde.
Cart me off, you thorny bastard.

Kirsten Irving

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