she’s a bayonet of the hole
in the chest
of the last scream of the bones
and the hiss of the punctured lung
a bayonet of the frightened words,
a bayonet of a tongue, buried in the tomb
of the mouth
a bayonet of the gushing words
onto indifferent sand of the time
a finger that numb on the trigger
a bayonet, because it is already
too close to shoot.
a bayonet, because it is too far to fear.