Sick


To be true, to be
in bins.

Too many destinies,
passed by the vanguards—

“Love the chaos,”
as you told me,
at summer’s end.

Let me pass your voice,
and your vanities

All effortless and desirable wit
had passed away 
for our forthcoming.

Erase it for a while, and feel relaxed
in the melody of demolition.

Write down the chaos 
on melting bullets.

Let it pass, and see the remnants
in the middle of slumber.

Be sick of little things
like small words in this letter.