I keep the gun warm
with the iron of my skin.
I sit here and draw
swords with my blood.
I am patient in this debt
and as beautiful as
a beheaded saint. 
It is August again,
my collar is wet where
it hangs on my neck.
I am ready for the cup.
I am ready for the darkness to spill.
I am ready for the jewel
of your fingers to trace the
outline of what I have done.
There is gold in the green waiting.
There is gold in my eyes that
will not ruin with remembrance.
I will chase around the edges
of things that should’ve been
with the fumbled ash of a cigarette 
I always hope the dark will take more time.





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