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.