Closer, closer
and listen.
Ammunition
is driven
to where it's fired
by a man
whose ire at red
lights could fan
conflagrations.
Listen, now,
carefully. I've
packed your lunch
with gunpowder,
a flower --
carnation's your
favorite.
Smells overwhelm:
cordite, milk
spiced and sweet. Eat
with my words
that pinch of salt
you would drop
on a bird's tail.
Feather soft,
reach between walls.
Take no calls.
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