Nelson

June 14, 2020

Fire the panzer eight times in a 

salute to the furtive runaway already halfway gone

dead or buried. This is their song

gravel throat let it burst out into the everlasting light of combusting

star-spangled space. Leave your print in the news so we may read up on

it under dimmed skies of a magenta coloration.

 

Fire the ovens eight times in a

send-off to decay already set in motion

dead or buried. This is their movie

hellish Christmas trees flashing across the silver glass that bursts 

airheaded genies. Leave your print in clay so we may preserve what

treaded here under the holy ink-shroud.

 

Fire the warnings eight times in a

red alert we had been blind to sense

dead or buried. This is their biography

eight years in time without their white-cuffed black coat to warm

empty pillowcases. Leave your pain for us to bare as you focus

on the weightless curiosity of the lustrous horizon.

 

Fire the weaver eight times in a 

protest to hope dreamt of in vain

dead or buried. This is their portrait 

seven years of bad luck twisting the singed canvas to ignite

jagged comforters. Leave your fur in plastic bags so we may touch you here

while you journey in the vertigo of cosmic bliss.

 

Fire the engines up eight times in a

goodbye to the corporeal and soon to ash

dead and buried. This is their memory

almost tangible but better left to itself to warm

less than a whole. You have left all you can so we leave you with this

while you nap among the unknown.

 

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