Not a Grenade.

He touched the drill bit

To have to have some silence

His yard had to many gophers

Then his eye brows wiggled

And the mud slid

Into a quick stand pit

Somewhere a woman hid

Inside a something

She had no name for

But it seemed stupid

As a trench collecting skeletons

And brass instruments

For the whole word was the capital

And hidden things often break

Like old news.