Friday, October 05, 2012

empty baths

And violence loved me,

what watching does to bodies.

3 a.m. in empty baths,

the empty waiting.

The weighted end of silence

the fury muse comes to break.

The eighty lamps inside your head

that drizzle dark instead of light.

The dark is why this always happens

when bullets puncture glass.

Why it's always raining

when blood on windows shows us nothing.

Why I read of borders

while boys ride death in heaven.

Why boys ride anywhere at all.

Why I end up fine and write you anything.

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