The afternoon comes like a torrent
Over brittle lungs, sodden genitals;
My box-shaped heart.
I steal another person's pain
So I no longer need my own.
The loft is filled with old love
I can't give to you any more,
It speaks like a skeleton's joints
Is all dead.
Duty calls me like a cowbell in fog.
From here, standing at the end of us,
Where you can no longer see me
I pull the trigger; the ballistic
of diseased roses will find you,
Years ago on that lawn of fluid.
I walk for a while
Through the beautiful mess I have made
Laughing into the rich soil.