Bullet Park

We were in the last museum,
no warmer than the world outside.
And we saw in the last display–
a picture of the last ride of humankind.

Outside is cold, cold grey.
We put away the day,
and tightened up the sky–
so nothing gets through.

Insipid faces stare at the jawbox,
and dreary mouths quote stock exchange.
And tired fingers pass tired bills;
then one day all is gone,
and weary legs walk blackened hills.

We walked into bullet park,
no colder than the world inside.

We touched holes in dead trees,
where shots had passed through warm flesh,
then cold breeze.