I refuse to imagine the methodical how
or reconstruct the final narrative
hour. I've know before
and for nothing dear that lasts.
Not the gunpowder burning
deep into my eyes, not the infinite
loving descent from the bridge
when the crosswind did not lift in joy.
I am tired of the intrigue,
the alchemy of error and sin.
I will not be told of a different self
nurtured to hate or hear again so much rage
in words that are mine as well. These
are our fables: two dogs, the jewel
from the crown. The richness, handed down.