the beginning of the lie
sold by the ounce
eye slit    finger fucker
in a field full of bad high moons
the ugly gun    empty
no real reason the trees die
in a humble way
later that hour return dressed as doormen
wind coming out their eyes
our only desire is to subtract what we love
from what we want to become in the dark
weightless splash of blood
imitating a split second
lost in the rhythm of a shoe
walking without a foot in it