I’m freaked by a hallway, alarmed by a razor, a blond
named anything, & fear never equals any linear sense.
She doesn’t either. Or should I account for what she does?

The measure of a life to be forgotten.
The timed-out motions of approaching death.
A head in blood on top of a desk.

The bullet that enters behind
the ear. The shot’s echo through
concrete walls & open doors.

Is it the rain that falls all day?
Or is it sunny, & does the sky insist
the matter is decay? She does.

Or should I explain what she doesn’t?
When, at last, will there be union?
Failure might be her view-- this way.

It might be mine-- that way. It’s not our pleasure,
& it’s no future obvious to me. Yes,
distraction’s the fury, & it leans against our lives.