The following was previously published by Rogue Agent
at sunrise
we shoot bullets
into yellow daffodil fields curled
by the scent of spring.
there are flowers where they fall,
hollow point petals
smothered in the
rotted reek of gunpowder.
the pulsing stench settles
on our dawn-lit skin
and there is something
beautiful about the loss
stirred into my morning coffee.
