My first inclination
is to write about rifles and *** and ankle socks with frills
around the top, but I do not know
anything about that – much less all three at once.

One time I had a dream, or nightmare, or fantasy
of getting ******
by the barrel of the gun.

Instead of bullets,
glowsticks entered me.

Guns are shooting stars, like *****. I have to steal cartons
of iced coffee to stay awake and
bend the caps
into heart-shapes to have any hope –

morning wood puts me in mourning, that is all I can
ever understand about myself.