Why We Decided to Go
Well, my erudition, my impudence, my
enemy of muse, hang up your narratives
or the pastor will absolve them. Your anti-
distraction for hipsters’ hugs in the margins
go tripping to confession on All Soul’s Day.
And where is Misfortune, who whispered from
behind St. Michael that if the corpses weren’t
there by six he’d call Collyn. And then he did.
She stirred slightly in her garnet mist,
had only care to brush at the ashes on her
skirt before polishing off an entire
bottle of merlot, and rasp shit.
For, you see, we had already
burned them with our manuscripts.
We should all get on home now, all of us,
while the getting is good. Our shoelaces moisten,
noticing the approaching moon.
All thighs, ink, and albino memories we barely
think to go home but someone says Go home.
And so we do, hand in hand. And the sidewalk
smells like a candied rebuking.