I'll come in a spectre, silently,
pervade the woods. They'll see
me at their jobs, sometimes
[Put the gun in my hand.]
out at the bar--no fag for miles,
I'll be in the cracks of the Internet,
Waiting to collect & be adored.
[Put the gun in my hand.]
The rural fog of unfamiliarity
will cloak me, boys walking in the woods.
The grinding machines & their smokestacks
[Put the gun in my hand.]
muffle our moans, theirs confused & mine elsewhere.
