BOUNTY HUNT

Near the close 

of summer, the dead center 

swells.

And I still want to pass

my losses off 

as pleasures—only

now I’m

unsure how.

On the street, 

everything pales
and sepias toward 

the same congealed color—

parked cars, houses,
tree bark, lawns—

and I don’t know whether

to capture or kill—

to feel

turned on

by those traitorous images—

by thought’s 

benign downshift

from sawing violins

to pin pricks—or
repelled.