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

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