it’s just a cause to cull, wildly,
your sad and weary song
sung in harmony with the heavens
though it won’t last very long.
and you know what it takes
to form a fraction of a place
to call your home.
and you’re there alone.

justify your willingness
to realize your ruins
like a bandage over a gunshot wound
you’re bleeding out and over.
so you try to be no rover of the gardens.

the gate swings.