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.

Broken teeth.

Down the dirt road, feet slipping into slick

rutted swoop,

seeking the axe. Sharp

side; stumble. And callouses wriggling in the

sun-spattered dark.

I walk home with bits of leaf

stuck to my sweater.