Late night,
still small talk,
I want to line up
those words like
beer bottles on a fence,
plug them one by one
with a rifle

The emptiness,
the retreating echo
of gunshots,
shards of glass,
anything would be better
than the cosiness,
safety of weather
and your cousin's new car.

You look up at me,
gently, the histories
in your eyes
refusing to bother
the lazy ramble of
your mouth.

You bend to
to the road maps
that only show
the easiest routes
while I crave
the violence
of what I know.

- John Grey

© 1995

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