give me the gun, my love
this is no dance, no
punchline
blue smoke coiling like hollow wire
above the spruce crowns, glittered
with the last cold
of the cruelest month
the tired ladder
propped beside the gutter
clotted scarlet
the knifesong of the wind
beyond the grasp
of the fire
a slap, a fist to the throat
or to the bones
the safety’s off, you turned
all your loaded words
on yourself
Photo Credit: Dani_vr Flickr via Compfight cc
