The cloth is wound around my head;
Gripping my temples.
The gravel crunches beneath my knees.

The twine bites into my wrists;
Fastened in a knot that mirrors the arrangement of my gut.

The sun;
Glaring;
Blazes down upon the world.

All is bare

The rifle is cocked.
The bullet chambered.

The work is done;
The image emerges.

This is my portrait of love.

Thus it sits now;
Though at other times
It is, with outstretched arms,
Nailed fast to a tree.

At other times;
Swinging from the gallows

At other times;
Kneeling.
With the executioner's block for a pillow

It is all the same;
Always the perfect painting in red.

The rifle is cocked;
The bullet chambered.

All is bare.