Metallic shards flood your senses tonight
for the last time, maybe ever, maybe
forever. It’s hard to say which is right,
between the left hook and the meat cleaver:
The spin on your mouthpiece is fierce like shards,
scraping the pink toes of giant brown rats
that cut the branches like a house of cards
wherein the only suit is spades, and slats:
So you clear the deck, sweep it with blood eyes
and dead legs with carbon stains on the pegs;
thank god you have wings and patience that flies
on the rainbow-eye of black powder kegs:
I will that I itch, therefore that I fly
against the backdrop of clouds in your sky.