Drill

Prop gun under one arm,

hard against the skin,

each breath harsh and humid,

out on drill in light rain,

feeling good about some things, feeling earthed –

wet mud sucking like a puppy at a teat.

Blind, hazy satisfaction in it.

Sky like a scrawled kiss on a love note,

already halfway a mistake. Distant,

but fond.

What’s needed is a cage you can wrap yourself in

like a gift. Like a mind.

Tumble into one, out of another.

Rifle humming like a current;

boots buried in soft sand.

This moment.

Then this.