When I was dizzy Arkansas I thought
in overlong and intense barnyard scenes
adapted from a Razorback I caught
impossibly, in silence, without means
of capture. Curving just a bit inside,
I introduce reduction to the pines
in sounds, a series of far wails implied,
some early yards, magicians in the vines.
Reboot the sequels, counterpunch the bunch,
the hearts of lettuce, prayers and matinee shows,
so, overblown and beaming over lunch,
a callow, shallow type of havoc grows
like villians amid images of snaps,
like twill and buttons pre-removed from naps.
