You called to tell me something
about whiskey, those kinds of lessons
gleaned from fermentation
in the hot sun before a cold winter
spent in isolation:
chopped up, put in a wheelbarrow.
I distracted you for a moment
with those certain mutual pleasures
and you slipped your secret out:
the means to kill and kill again
with the diminishing remorse
of proper lubrication.
Others’ mistakes weigh heavily
in higher gravity, in sordid deserts
where terror births
the impetus of death
from those broadside explosions,
the Bukhara buck caught in fireworks
bounding with its own,
charging into something obscene
with the silhouette of fearlessness
ensconced in such a climate.
There is no longer loss than that
first shot, the bus of bodies pouring.