Windows rattle in their grooves a low thudded threat to let the winter in.
You wonder what it is. It lacks geography, has the substance of dream,
November is a mausoleum, grey as closet dust.
An automatic needs a guy It’s Monday; “What’s to do?” Open fire and spray some hell Kill a crowd or two
We are acid in his face He’s disfigured in his rage
I tried to write a prayer. I didn’t have success.