I named it
Put horns on it
And filed its teeth down till their points twinkled like dead stars.
Then it flew around the room
its tongue lolling between its jaws
And I could tell it was exhausted
Close as a kiss
Its breath suddenly sour
From a length of bad habits
And deep draughts cluttered and brittle
With the dregs of empire.
That’s when I filled
An empty shotgun shell
With teardrops and dragged it out
Behind the barn
There to put one of us out of their respective misery.
On the way we tripped over a prostrate poet
Waiting for a trickle of his own tears to freeze
Idly building a tiny drawbridge
Out of toothpicks and sonnets.