I write this sonnet for you
purer than our midnight
full moon, *** act one, in
the dead bed in motel 6,
you left for other tricks.
Afterward I got my fix
the purest of any mix
I ever shot up for kicks.

I wrote my soul word for word
on a grain of rice big as Mars
and called it my Suicide Note and
plastered it on windows of my bars
they took my ashes once they cooled
packed them to sell in Jelly jars.