To Leonard Matlovich
Elvis Galasinao Jr. Those cartridges that are empty
are golden like the sunlight
and the highlights of his hair.
He loved
that gold like he loved the petals
of the flowering daffodils gleaming
in the dawn with auric splendor.
The bullets
are scattered like seeds of loss,
two cold bodies of men, oblivious
to the blood that seeps
over the ground