| Chris Stanifer |
My heart pumps hate
and nicotine
like the battered engine
of a ruined machine
And she asks me
what death
feels like
I place her head
against my chest
turn off the radio
and wait
She asks if it will hurt
when the beating
stops
No worse
I'd imagine
than when it started
She softly sleeps
to the uneven thrum
her dreams filled
with cannon fire
and misstepped march
I roll down the window
light another cigarette
and drive toward horizons
meant for others.
and nicotine
like the battered engine
of a ruined machine
And she asks me
what death
feels like
I place her head
against my chest
turn off the radio
and wait
She asks if it will hurt
when the beating
stops
No worse
I'd imagine
than when it started
She softly sleeps
to the uneven thrum
her dreams filled
with cannon fire
and misstepped march
I roll down the window
light another cigarette
and drive toward horizons
meant for others.
| Of Cannon Fire and Misstepped March |
