the aging orb
glowing red-white
crouches below the leaf-line
illuminating the yellow sky behind it so
the leaves are black as the coming night.
our boys prowled the gardens
like cats closing in on a((n enticing)) scent…

the scent of my blood, definitely.
was it she
or the deathless gun
that whispered the last


i ever heard?
it must have been the ((greasy, diet-coke-colored)) gun
because she would ((never)) do that to me.


although i suppose her tongue could have clucked
against the roof of her ((so incredibly delicious)) mouth…
sometimes my

the teenage moon, changing personalities as often as i had,
uncertainly wavered in the
sea-dark evening. that virgin diana would never have fallen
for the same trick i had:

her honey-colored voice.