I was sorry enough for the things that were said
under snow clouds in April.
Your fist was red and chapped around the bottle.
You were slurring in the grass like a man
who is dying from cold or from rot
away organs. I want to paint you
black in your coffin.
Down the dirt road, feet slipping into slick
seeking the axe. Sharp
side; stumble. And callouses wriggling in the
I walk home with bits of leaf
stuck to my sweater.