Twins
don't dig
their pink hooves
into the steadfast heart

while the women drink
and men
don't talk

because of doubles
i am never sure
how the seasons
make me feel

like a hustler
rustling
among the hyacinth
blooms,
a crossed eye

so i made a nest
in a story,
howling down
the ending

in the trough of
exposed self,
the dirt is laughing
at the moon light.