Men’s Dark Conceits of Night Pt. II

As lead meets lobe
And slices through
A man’s extinction’s mess
Created thence
Through palms all red
Drip through her finger-sieves.

“But why? But why?”
Too late, she sees
That he’s erectilized —
But fading now
To puttied clay —
And falls she to her knees:

Too late to stop
The shot of lead
That led him, damnédly,
To take to hand
One sil’vry shot
To launch eternity.

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