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.