Murder Plot

I bet you’re still hearing thunder/in basements of the dead departed./A departure, from banners, /where filial ties /served as grounds for murder./So much hinges on small numbers;/the hum of the engine,/ push of a knife on the throat./Before this, the knife lay/ glistening on bruised knees./You can put your mind at ease,/go shop for beeswax,/after you hit the cash box,/it’s filled with bank notes and pesos./A hop and a skip, to places/ where murmurs wane./ Keep watch on the crowds, stomach churning,/lance the silence to its’ core: start running./They understand this much:/you were just too lonesome.

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