Murder is a blatant way of dying.
                                                     …Joseph Brodsky

A paraplegic gunned down
in his chair, children caught in crossfire,
another prison planned for town.

No wonder the rusted rod iron
smells like a rabid hound.
When Christ returns as a lion

he'll lead us down to driftwood huts
where—nailed to pitted doors—
the town's laments

scribbled on slips of paper, torn
by time and angry winds,
lists of wrongs, tiny thorns

to throb beneath the skin.
May jump ropes and candied apples
Forgive us our grievous sins.