Light the first candle
for the road-killed, red
eyes of taillights; swimming
fins of Yan-gant-y-tan
all in chrome at the back.
Black road like a garrotte,
the silk cravat on the cadaver.
Tie one on; he's got plenty
light for those with none.
II.
Light another for the wronged;
just could not see a way
through to the other
side of the bad bog. Sat
down in the dark water.
Brought you along, to have
& to hold out for dawn
who never came.
III.
Three's a charm, a token,
an Italian horn for hirsute
torso of suitor done gone
in the inky night of abandon.
Cut the rug until tendons
ruptured: farmer's daughters
his Achilles heel, feet of dead
bunnies under his thumb.
IV.
Four is for sorrow & no tomorrow
for any young buck
dumb enough to walk these paths
at dusk. Find a hollow,
climb a tree or tallest peak;
steal the stash of pyrite, feed your tongue
to house cats, beg one last favor
of another dead god.
V.
Place the butcher knife in the turf,
blade facing up. Burn
the fifth votive, then pass the last
roach to our lonesome traveler:
he'll pry open a box
of shotgun shells, fling pellets
at the campfire. When the sun
rises, piss on the embers.
Scatter the ashes. Begin to dig.
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