A love letter from a killer to the world.

Light coming in the color of ocean, through

the window, through the crossed panes,

onto the tile floor scattered with

shapeless mounds of cloth. The two

beds, low and narrow, one empty.

 

The silence. Not a bird or insect.

The distant rocking of boats

at the marina. A sense of desiccated,

exhausted peace over the house. An interlude

of rest before drama and trouble

resume with the waking hours.

 

Insane drunkenness. Leering and collapsing