So I do

Mmm. Yes.
High times when times are final.
The boom hound lapped me by miles.
Its panting echo leapt from the barrel and struck the rim edge,
Rang it like tracers overhead.

The phosphorous melted off the iron
And the ringing echo settled.
The cartridge spins,
and rest.

But Odor remains,
Nestled in the fat of my firing finger.
I’ve anodized my tongue
shredded my palette
stuffed cotton in my mouth.

Another year is going
And so I do.