I Hope They Leave Pretty Wreaths, Dear

Tender gasoline coats the meadow – You look half dead half the time, dear. Children dream of willow fires and – Why don’t you pick the car up, dear? Violent burns open you up from below – Can’t you hear the drumming, dear? The young wood rumbles above us – There’s your arm, under the gas pedal, dear. Silent death echoes from all around – Here’s our son, bright red in the ditch, dear. The drumming of failure screams again – Here are my innards, but where’s my head, dear? The wild fires merge into a whisper – Oh, dear, the dog’s been skewered on the STOP sign, dear. Biting rain stings at the violent meadow – And such great care we took with the car, dear. Cruelty slips in among the failings – We’re dead, dear.