And swamp mitered
Miss Edge hits the trampoline
With the knife out every time.
Misses just the same.
And in the shade where mold
Gets Gretchen, tries on some
Old coats, some grass in a poke,
Some faces move right in
Real quick like in a city passing
And they mix right in with
Those hard edges, canvass slip
A nostril to a brick
But not in that
Creepy bloody tile kind of way
Even though the brick’s red under
Its shame of fashion
The dirty sludge back where a rain
Plodded or the kids in the granary
Of power stomp made psyche tests
Out of concrete skirt standings.