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.