I’m deader, now, than a battery
in a Buffalo winter. Sad and pathetic
I am, no tree to calm my ferns, growing
from ribs and finger.
A house used to stand here in
this savage lot laughing out
bullet casings in the virulent night.
I could have been gunned down
on the corner. I don’t know;
but life here in the glorious malaise
is death enough.
It is death enough.