There’s only one thing you can do
With a sawed-off rifle, a low IQ, and curiosity
about human biology.
You awake at sunset, yourself still,
a storm-eye of boredom, drink, and LSD.
that’s the only thing that
ever made sense, was tidy or clean:
how convenient and pre-emptive excuses are,
arising out of capitulated-to
desires, imbibing, cussing, so many
You were estranged from yourself,
not yourself, that night. But this is even truer
sober. We can guess your past
is a neighbour’s unfinished basement,
and that when you recline, you feel his breath
on your freckles again.
You are a victim, too, and the violence
of your life is all you’ve ever known. It gulps to unwind
its weaving, unknot, and breathe,
but undone can’t be done by doing.
you march a man through a thicket, where
no one can hear him plead.
Your steps mulch recently fallen
autumn leaves, snap branches, snag
wider the tear in your jeans.
It’s a kind of transfusion.