Munitions in place
you were ready...

The ethical dilemma,
and chaste abscenity...

A house without doors
I was living...

Not confessional.
Without reading the body...

You want to cover your
amnesia. Death...

You are waiting
amid fears. The fretting...

The dancing paper,
humilates the pen...

A severed hand, after
the blast, working on a script...

Overlooks the juvenility.
The shrinking genitals...

Downy mildew,
blinks. The sun...

Uncannily sanguine,
wounded by biting gnats...

This September. It is
going to be very quiet...