an embattled horizon
and a silk storm of subtle rain at the window
I thought was you
packed up and portable
I’m ready to run
I heard a gun at dawn
a fuckwind shot and screeching
what carries forward is love
—what a mover!
sleek hips and hanging loose
can I come over?
I kiss your punches, embrace your kicks
gan on, beg me to die for you
although your love turned toxic
my breath stops when you hurry past
to lock up the chickens, clutching a fag
Copyright © 2004 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.