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On the ground lies Bruce.
Weeds grow between his toes
up his ankles to his naked thighs where they bloom as bruises bloom after a bump.
Purple berries tip from his nostrils down his chin splashing his neck and spotting his T.
A creeper wraps his waist
squeezing his bare pierced belly button mushroom thick with dust.
Under his shorts his balls hang dry-husked by the gee wisp thin cotton briefs
that belonged to his lover.
On the ground lies Bruce.
Wet moss webs his fingers wraps his wrists while in his open hand rests a pen –
“ .”
When they find him
a moth-laced fragrance flickers in the smoke-slept air.
Taints of souls he loved once or twice or more still hang with him. Will hang with him
until those that
lie and creep alike
to the slavish sick sticks of men
who have no love, save for themselves. Now curse them in remembrance of Bruce. Are rid.
November 15, 2014