—Killer’s Kiss, 1955
Legs and torsos pitch in the currents of wild swings:
under doll-stares, the villain’s axe tears
through stocked body parts before the leading man floors him
and makes the gangster scream—it cuts here, but I know
how he scrambled to the streets, stopping under a framed sky, dark
and suddenly clear. How he forgets the taxi-dancer prize,
pencil-skirt lines, the canvas mats that burned his boxer skin.
How the cold air bites his lungs until he laughs
a tight little sound. Behind him in the warehouse,
plastic chimes in the last wind: four inverted hands on strings.
Photo By: Night–thing