By the time you find him tucked into the floor,
the gun will be cold.
Whatever answers in the barrel will have evaporated
like the light of living’s eyes.
And the pain will be far too much to cry.
The pain will be far too much to cry.
But
you will for far long try,
finding the next stop a snowing field—
A sludge under the tracks
where the train don’t slow,
it just goes and goes and goes
riding you through the soft optimism of chance,
through dirty grime,
ice cream glow,
where...