in dusty books on this.
Their writers are all dead;
still trusted.
A Luger's
luminosity
felled me, spread the wealth.
"So now what?"
Heather asks, flora
in her own right.
It turns out I'm a monster.
It turns out that won't change.
Her earrings are here
on the night stand
though that means nothing, detective.
Not all mistakes
are implications.
Not every thorn
stems from red petals.
Can't read the future
in a puddle's oil slick.
All hands on deck
to hear these proclamations.
There's a list of tunes
I pray are in Hell's jukebox.
So, now what?
Currently reading:
"Apt Pupil" by Stephen King.
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