The fine light slanting through the windows outside
hit upon the shadows in the dusty corner;
corners cut by the butcher's son
leave little left of the slaughtered voices.
I cradle his red stained hands,
leaving the untraceable pleasure under my fingertips.
With the time ticking away,
why does all the time travel to some sort of silent retreat?
We all feel pleasure in being guilty.
I start to yell, like ***** willows on fire
to let my own voices recover.