the red heat at last broke across the
misshapen backs of two old crows
lifting from The Omen Tree to cast
the day's last shadow on our lengthening lawn.
and Jess turned to me stern like she'd
might well never see the sun again and said
It's in my blood, Sloan, it's rocket-bone fever
I know it and it's got right a good hold on me, too.

        rocket-bone, she says, where your legs need to "go"
        her eyes wide like each one could take off any minute
        to unknown destinations each a little fighting piece of Jess.

and I said I love you Puck but you know you're
wound right up, tighter than baling wire and no
amount of rocket fuel is gonna rip you away from me so
        guzzle up buttercup rocket-bone or no you got
        nowhere else to go and hell baby you know even the
        Titan Two Class missile herself's got a home.

because I love you Puck and I know how it goes and
if it ain't kerosene in your bloodstream it's
the president calling on the telephone
saying you've won come on down or it's
flesh eating fish in our neighbor's pool
old Gloria Whitford, mother to eleven,
who you're certain you killed in a duel.

        and I said I'm gonna take care of you Puck cuz
        you're a crazy *** ***** and full up with **** but
        baby you're still built outta rocket parts.
        and every bit of you is still a fighting piece waiting to blow
        hit every city on the eastern seaboard you rocket-bone you
        and warheads or no hell I bet the President then even would phone,

if I ever let you go.