We found you among the deadwood that collected
In the river’s crook. Beavers stood over your body like
Kiddy crossing guards fattened for slaughter.
They did not want to give you up. Apparently
Your body’s newfound stiffness fooled them
Into thinking you were driftwood, also;
That you belonged to them.
We absorbed the scene awhile, pondering,
Then went back home without you.
Who the hell were we
To argue with beavers?
The Pumpkin Fucker
O, how I like to fuck pumpkins!
How tantalizing it is to carve a hole
And know it waits only for you!
How round and cool they are on the outside
Yet all yielding, stringy delight within!
A man could find true happiness in
A ripening pumpkin patch, ass up
In all that sweet orange melon.