We found my cousin
in my uncle Trevor's barn,
he slit his arm from
wrist to elbow and
back again.
Hey lay there twitching,
a goldfish in broken glass,
they shook him, begged, pleaded,
I said: "Let it be-
he's gone, gone, gone."
There's a sweetness in the worst things.
My room was bare, so I
hung a fuchsia over my bed.
The blooms hang heavy,
thrusting pistil, dripping spores;
almost obscene, withered and ignored,
they fall to the floor.
