’59 Tomahawk

The way that “Montauk” feels in your mouth
To conjure white sands and moto jeans
As though we all somehow got greyer-eyed on Halloween

The all-white quiet of Meadowlark Woods
Split clean open by Mossberg report
And the downy barn owls, palmetto vexed, become a sport

Lavender in a wreath around your head
Safely hidden in the monolith
Sacred horror sleeps it off in fits

There are islands of lucidity
But we’ve been proven irresponsible
And I am hardly jettisoning gold with no excuse

Lavender in a wreath around your head
Safely hidden in the monolith
Sacred horror sleeps it off in fits
Twisting slowly from the black lagoon
Smoking flower in an azure plume
Having finally found our quiet room