The sounds of spring bound into my wet ears and I'm left thinking of the gun and the good it's done me. Her straight face and everything she left inside. The spring brings its perennial shoots and with it the gun I lust for. The heat will twist me with humid hands, pull and stretch till you can't recognize my head or heart. Soon the heat will feast on the softness in my chest and leave behind a clay pigeon. Summer comes to me so the gun leaves its cave.













