Chigurh

image borrowed from bing

Chigurh

“There is no God, and we are his prophets.”

--Cormac McCarthy

first thing, carefully

across the depression, he swung

out into the dust.

he rose,

smelled them,

put them back,

left the bed,

walked over,

opened the doors,

closed them again,

went around the sink,

ran his finger down

along the seam

of the tub;

a bloody towel,

bloodstained washcloth,

bloody handprints

on

the shower curtain.

at first light,

making notes in his head,

could still see the bloodstains

where Moss

had been shot,

bits of glass in the gutter,

window glass

from curbside automobiles,

some windows shot out,

pocks in the brickwork,

teardrop smears on the steps.

sun was coming up,

two bulletholes in the door,

he went in;

faint smell of rot.

a parlor, an old woman

sat slumped, shot

through the forehead,

newspaper in her lap,

cotton robe black

with dried blood.

You could not help

but notice.

Glenn Buttkus

November 2012

This Erasure Poem was taken from a page of NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN

by Cormac McCarthy

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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