https://www.wordforword.info/vol40/Duckler.html

My mind in this heat is a bloated dog,

I drive, fins in the arid between.

My debut is here, in the banked log

kicked and squished by sheen.

My house burns, the rooms ameliorate,

and I lock the dragged form to lone farms.

My back is at the moving gate,

a nuisance I want to hurt and harm,

and fill in with red embattled circles.

What is this empty, signifying hellbent story,

that must be filled with ridicule?

Idiots preside in the naked cottonwood of glory.

Women should know better.

Blind beauty before the unopened letter.