for Steven Spender


All that’s left

is thunder now

and low-flying jets.

It’s turning cool

and the crabs are out.

He can smoke if he wants

and soften his grip on the stock,

but his peace will never come.

The boy who swung

on a Missouri proch

to summer wind

and an ice cream bell

lost it, lost it all

the minute he spotted a figure

in his sights,

pulled the trigger

and meant it.


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