Poet Wrestling with d e a t h_____ t o u c h
They say: murderous resting face. & I say. Everyone
is a coward. In a ring of fire. There are only fists.
& liars. I sweep a leg. Bloodsport is not. For honor.
Don’t you know my name. What will you call me
when you shoot off. More bows.
Without arrows. Try to avenge me.
Harder. For all that eye. & tooth you.
Owe. Our monsters. If we find the right
speed, you can sing right through
the rain. Of bullets. I love a hunk
of tin stuffed
with explosives.
& helical springs.
& no apologies.
To men good
as dead. &
Believing. Their deaths.
& touches. Were always
real. Like your bone love
of the bomb. Always.
Gets me. Low-key
cathedral. On hotland
mornings. I’ve paid. In dust
Tokens. Kept safe. In a little
black box. Don’t you feel.
How I am. Hidden beneath
you. & you aren’t anything
more than my own
mangled gaze,
the swat of lips
that graze
a flame
blood-
swept
in
reckoning.
