This September. It is
going to be very quiet...
Uncannily sanguine,
wounded by biting gnats...
Downy mildew,
blinks. The sun...
Overlooks the juvenility.
The shrinking genitals...
A severed hand, after
the blast, working on a script...
The dancing paper,
humilates the pen...
You are waiting
amid fears. The fretting...
You want to cover your
amnesia. Death...
Not confessional.
Without reading the body...
A house without doors
I was living...
The ethical dilemma,
and chaste abscenity...
Munitions in place
you were ready...