Last Shot
I want to make a gun– Platinum, the stock scored With rosewood’s grain. The bullets will leave the barrel As aimless as the gypsy moths Eating July in green bites. My gun will kill every other gun, A cannibal. No more kidneys Pierced, urine alkali in spleen, Bile spilled, livers unmolested. Crows will be uninterested In the metal carcasses. Then… Read more →