fine
lines
in the morning there are bullet casings in what’s left of the garden
I awoke knowing you had slept through the night
“how could you?”
they ask of each other
even the yellow poppies have silently cropped up during the drought
“what if I wanted him to?”
I ask of myself
unbutton his shirt
my face is hot from using the word ‘love’ too many times
ugly from hearing ‘yes’
I am wrong too much
on the day when it rained for the last time
I pointed a gun up at the sky
almost didn’t hear you leaving
the dust held on to your footprints
sleep took every trace of expression from your face
I wake and don’t have to tell anyone
collection III — conditions of the heart