you've got a friend
in the devil, a broom
to stand on. Hat points
at stormclouds, the fury
of the upper air.
Whip-smart & alit:
three witches walk into a bar
& burn the fucker down.
What say you good people?
The pious sink like stones,
those cherubic pinions clipped
& inked for wry screeds.
You can't take it with you,
but you can bury it deep
in the same scrub grass
where your precious Faith
went missing. Old
Goodman Nobody,
there is no light bearing
down upon you, no odds
that aren't long, a merciless
fate unless certain herbs
grow up through the fertile dead,
& even then, their poultice
chills more than it
can soothe, cold comfort
none other than the vapors,
every victims' name
another bit of kindling,
a stack of good neighbors
& the claims they've yet
to submit.
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