lilting cigarettes

let your guard down.

cloudy smile like
a veil

Nothing had happened.
She'd left before they'd talked anything over.

ashtray
bullethole
cigarette falling

his eyes were semblances 
of holes staring for the  
long hard gun in her hand

Strings of questions
ran in fury the distance of his skull

A small boy in Iowa takes white-out
and blots his head.

What guard?



by josh buermann © 1996