Contra

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Too soon we killed one another

like Americans. We were young

once, the night shirtless in its blue

fatigues. We never imagined

the pursuit of all suicide

runners, RNG, or the spawns

of loneliness spread like a net

in the river where we buried

our sin. Was a gun in each hand

how we made harm? Without meaning,

one leap could force another’s fall

down, down toward the deep breathing

mouth never-to-be-closed: off-screen

(where nothing lives). I am living

in Ohio, waiting to die

without meaning. In an old code,

the Lord blessed me with a long life

I don’t want. The Lord, to listen

for my prayer, must learn a new tongue

from smoke. I should burst into flame.