Japanese Death Poem

November 3rd, 2020. Election day. Snow remains on the ground but the temperature is getting warmer. I light my kerosene heater anyway so I can get stoned off the fumes. A thousand gunshots echo not too far. I feel them in my chest. I feel my ghost in every movement---even stirring instant coffee. I step outside and stare at the moon in my cup. I give thought to quietly making love to all of her wounds. That's the kind of man I am. That's mostly what has been on my mind through all these years. Who will judge it?

town drunk . . .

a fallen branch

his cane