Standing in the space that holds the silent lace
of night away from you
You think that you can hold the searing, molten gold
between your fingers ...
But it slips through, tearing tendons as it goes,
exposing the white of a knuckle ...
flesh-and-metal forming letters in the mould.
Cradling your gun, after choosing the ones
you think should die -
Lying on the hill ... crawling over the windowsill
into your living-room
They stare out, glass-eyed aimless heads,
bodies torn by vultures ..
you are the man whose hands are rank with
the smell of...(more)
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