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