Gunshots hummed through the air
like the chronic breathing
of madness
and its heavy and grey, scratched
by all the songs of hell
that were sent to us
by him
or another
fallen angel.
The ground lies stony and soiled
and the weeds were so often mistaken
for the beauty . . .
And you disappear
when I thought you
could last forever.
You vanish from this world,
your shell crumbling
in my mouth
as I am shocked by
your passing,
and waterfalls escape internally
for the way the dove
is lost
to the christian.