night is thicker then the blood of angel's

 
 
no one saw the  
bullet coming
and no one
moved
 
there were angels of  
passion dead in the  
backseat
 
headlights knife  
through the
viscous  
night
 
blood on the  
bumper
 
stars glare with
coldness  
 
missionary's
burn in the
firmament
 
last doubts  
wasted,
cast  
out
 
at long last
we were
home
 
crippled blues
shouting
pain,
 
hobbled by some
ancient  
ritual
 
there is nothing
left but to  
be left  
alone
 
because out here in  
the great, icey west  
only the wind  
knows the
truth
 
and speaks in
tongues only
the lizard and
cyote can
measure
 
the earth is not  
a treasure,
it is a  
trap
 
and we writhe
like flies before
a skeleton
dawn