you are ticking the subscription of a shotgun smile

the restless reminder, the stranger behind you,

twice barrelled quarantine of lush glories

tar fingered around the ringed copper, broken and unworthy,

smoking in the buttoned up knowledge of hereditary tracts,

winter tracks and the plastic penance of a youthful slaver

“x” shan't mark the spot where we shall bury you

a shallow alphabet not sufficient to conceal the scent

from the gym dogs for, after all, they still can't see

all those Little birds which grace the ceiling's grazing

you must tell me the etiquette for issuing an invitation

to a murder,

the order of seating,

the speeches to be made

the gifts,

the dress code,

the weapon’s best grade