Le'ts take a walk to the precipice
& try not to think of the perverse
imp who beckons to the ensanguined
peaks.
Not a soul-
mate but a Brocken specter
against the serrated pink
clouds. The garish flowers
laugh & the log houses are stocked
with supplies enough
to last until it all blows over
the snaggle-tooth range,
as permanent as pipesmoke.
A backpack full of tobacco
& Magic cards, a lunchpail brimming
with Serbians' bile. Bring me
the heavy chains so we
might bind the preacher man:
this is our life now
as we deteriorate further in
both body & mind. We walk
not so much toward death
as to a place of rest,
a deep breath drawn against
the wooden fence, a fine repast
made up of kidney beans
& Chianti. Heaven holds
its book of sorrows,
but our bones know
they'll shift the ground until
we've puffed our last
& blown the Lord's
house down.
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