or throwing up the sash will probably be armed. the light you see is not the moon on the breast of new-fallen snow but a gun-mounted flashlight. there’s no safety at the top of the porch or the top of the wall. and where we are in this country, it may be too late to dash away. appropriate. though we eventually wear the suit death sews for us, fortunately, what is buried or burned is just a body and not the spirit. poets live on.
the calendar all booked up, the future unknown.
fight out on the dock.
the suit in the silence. 