--- A M Y   H O L M A N

Attention: sleep, passenger. Small girl, back seat,
         I'd figure the sleeping form at the sound of fights.

You're not asleep, she's not asleep, John said, left
         alone in an air of ruin. But they'd quiet him and

themselves, in deference or by benefit, slipping me
         the reins. Who is the guilty one? He who drove the

miscarriage, or he who fed the horses? Who is more
         lonely? The soul who ghosts the ruin, or the architect

of the brand new house? Kill her, kill that girl, small
         John said to Mom before sleep, for I am the only one.