give me the gun, my love
this is no dance, no

blue smoke coiling like hollow wire
above the spruce crowns, glittered

with the last cold
of the cruelest month

the tired ladder
propped beside the gutter
clotted scarlet

the knifesong of the wind
beyond the grasp
of the fire

a slap, a fist to the throat
or to the bones

the safety’s off, you turned
all your loaded words
on yourself

Photo Credit: Dani_vr Flickr via Compfight cc

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