storm, approaching
the evening sky
stretched thin and pale above
the hills and the clouds where they
bleed to pale pink at the edgesthe houses without lights
empty or filled with corpses
and the doors all open or closed
and the sound of wind chimesthe sound of wind
the way each moment balances raggedly
between real and surrealthe dark green of the lawns and
the feel of the pavement and
the name of this woman that no one
can find
the idea of her unborn child
of her husband's teeth filed
down to dull yellow pointshis eyes open in the darkness and
his finger on the triggerthe smell of rain from
just beyond the line of treesthe distance from
the cemetery to the landfillfrom the hammer to the nail
and then your smile when
the skin is finally puncturedgorky's last words to his wife
and children
caught forever in his throatnothing but static on the radio
when all he wanted
was to sing
