By Miles Dennis
I went out into the rain,
When I started to think about bullets
And the blue-handled kitchen knife.
I found a pair of salmon
The color of blood stains on wooden floors,
Crossing and recrossing each other,
Dancing and decaying,
Braiding themselves together past
Tent walls and needles and
Under graffitied bridges
Towards death and life.
And a little color
Returned to my
eyes.
