The blind now
forces paper to put
upon itself. What was read
is blackened by the name of blood.

I, says the cat, will sit
upon the chest of my conquered curl.
I, says the gun, will kill
anyone who comes between
the pressure of my trigger-
and what? Did I intend rain?

Evidently. The sufferers line up
to petition our please.
And…and…and the stutterers
sing the siren's curse.

Now is the season…
the reason for our furrowed brows.
Pop-pop!
the gun goes.
The stage is empty.
There weren't any heroes.

16 April 2002