[untitled]

Your voice
crawled across the bed
and unearthed itself:
a windmill of vectors,
shudders, wrenching into me.
You said it happened when
you were eleven years old.

How ridiculous that a man
would bring his eleven year old
to the railroad tracks
ignoring the way
bullet holes
gouge identity.

You learned cruelty too young,
you confessed, on the second day
an invisible sense of arson
how it crawled in radiant numbers
across the bed. I wonder
if there’s ever a good way to murder,
and if so, can you remain
titanic when you live
a ragged sun.

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