blood on the sheets
and you laugh
blood on the walls
the daughter
in the mother’s arms and
both of them dead
the boyfriend picked up
800 miles away
says he loves her but
can’t explain the gun
can’t explain the rope
around gorky’s neck or the
poet’s need to pick at
these open wounds
the ay the buildings burn
without reason
the cities where they
begin to dissolve
into suburbs and strip malls
your smile in
the weak sunlight of an
august afternoon
the way you taste
all of these things
held together by the
sheer force of anger
