you wish you were silent
on the asphalt, after death and alone;
no rain, just mist,
trailing after you with your sins,
calling out silence to follow your screams;

you wish it would echo over you already,
shake you until you are standing 
in the light of the crosswalk like they
are tightropes: there is nothing to care
about here. there is nothing to
say here. there is nothing to
stay for here. there is nothing to
fight 
against, for.

(down the block, too far for you
to hear over your whispers from the
middle of the Crossroads, a 
bar housing your death and victim
stands idle: to the sound of smooth jazz, he stands,
wiping his glass & yours,
pouring himself a cup of gin never drunk.)