I will die a quiet death,
not one of pomp, or ridiculuous circumstances.
No acrid fog of gunfire; no dangled limbs
and spilled hair in a gauzy after dinner glow,
from the woman I’d been seeing, on the side,
and her husband’s thick fist and flint swerve
of a tire iron, an almost orchestral movement,
his conductor’s grace, beautiful and terrible,
fierce in its whipped flashings.
None of that silliness—blood and bone
with too much witness.
Too much clean up,
those rash and fulfilled decisions.
It will be in the hollow,
between two staid, immovable and ancient hills,
the languid glide of the porch swing,
her brushing the thin hairs
on the insides of my wrist,
a remnant memory.
That churning and electric
throb from the cicadas.
This quiet dissolve vanishing
into the moon’s severed half-light.