Spent bullets sparkle on streets grimy with the thud of winter.
of their upturned words could bring us another you.
from behind doors wedged tight.
You do not stop being dead.
a snippet of unturned year, no blood spraying its pure slate.
No tiny wreckage splayed there.
one exposed cheek gin-swollen, still asks his starlit questions.
waits like a slap under the snow for spring to return.