SELF-PORTRAIT WITH LOADED WEAPON

I sat in the chair. The chair sank in the soft sod. Behind me stars sank or slid off the edge of blue. Down the hill, rabbits pranced with little machete dreams. An angry finch sang a dirge or led a flock of finches in a dirge. The laundry on the line: your little white flags. I opened a hole in my throat. A song came forth. Nonplussed you sat there in your inky rags. You sipped your coffee. Turn the page.