Abstract
When his hoe came down on the copperhead’s neck, its blade nicked a rock or chunk of cracked walk kindling stars, among them a glint from vertical slit of pit-viper pupil as soul shorted out with parting last shot still fanged in the conscience: I deserved better, having let your legs and uncovered ankles pass unmolested. Even a pagan would have been fairer. Or was it a firefly who witnessing all steps up to testify I’m nothing to you, you pastoral ass, but summer in sequins, one flashing bulb of neon sign need on the evening marquis.
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