Staccato

for Franz Wright

Choose:

Shotguns loaded
with words

vs.

a thousand pages, rifled through
at 125 words per minute

centered on
the hole in your
head, your shame’s exit

which you want seen.

I didn’t invent eyes, not
mine.
I can’t uninvent them

there are no words
with a cigarette. Still

you’d say
fuck it, I’ll give everything
at once

Or?

Or nothing. Go

ahead,

shoot. I’m listening.