A Murder Story

Some things are happening
in the road under the lights
Shouts disconcert the slight
Ripples in the air that stick

I glance out the window and
see a man running with a pair
of blades held above his head
blood streaming down his naked
back as he passes at the top of his voice.

The air breaks into pieces and vapour
leaks into a distance from vapid tension
blind trust knows there is little to extract
no space for the spoils of war
keep it dark and death in the corner
a locus for spinning barristers
phrasing perpendicular to meaning

carefully matched phoneme for the circumstance
listen to the pulse one two three
listen to it dissipate after burning bright and brief

now a silent echo
increasingly everywhere