Tell me deals
your blood’s made
while I record it here.
The day after, I could have coughed up
your blood. It was tangling with mine.
If we walk forever with our ancestors
do we walk with the newly dead
mown of dignity by their own hands?
How long had the gun sat idle in the cunning drawer—
forty-seven years? More?
Who would have believed it— that the hammer
could still engage the ball.
The deals your blood’s making
shallow here, in
with mine. Tell me.