Epistulae 1.2

Qui, mortis saeuo geminent ut uulnere causas,
omnia uipereo spicula felle linunt.

why am I writing you?
you’ll throw away the letter

when you see my name
up here
the locals smear their blades

with poison
to up the chances
of a fatal wound

circling the walls like wolves
the rooftops gleam
with last year’s crop of shrapnel

as my fourth winter
stretches into spring
no rest for me

even in dreams
I’m riddled
like a target

sweating on the chaingang
or worst of all
I dream I’m

safe at home

No comments: