Saturday, November 05, 2016

poem in the glare of the neon cross

friday night in the
killer's car and
all he wants to do is fuck you

says his wife doesn't
understand him

drives to the top of
burnt hill road with the
city below stretched out wide
                          and decaying

your children
at home asleep

his hands as bloody as
christ's as they
search for your heat

nothing in this world
ever worth what it costs

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