what was left to admire

something

                    meaningless as jangled


keys          a muscle twitching

aimless                              but alive


nothing recognizable except the blood


none of us wanted to say we were “with” him

when the news          trickled          in

local in the first days

                                                            then the smell of it


everywhere

how the hand                    on the revolver

was his          and hungry

and the shots


would not be undone

    Elizabeth Austen is our Poet in Residence for August.



    Previously: Shall Not Be Infringed, and The Citizen.