Maybe a bit dramatic, but I light

candles with my breakfast, wear a white gown 

around the house like a virgin. Right

or wrong, forgive me? No one in this town 

knows forgiveness. Miles from the limits

if I squint, there’s Orion. If heaven

exists I will be there in a minute

to hop the pearly gates, a ghost felon,

to find him. Of blood, of mud, of wise men. 

But who am I now after all these years 

without him: boy widow barbarian

trapping hornets in my shit grin. He’ll fear 

who I’ve been since. He’ll see I’m a liar,

a cheater, a whole garden on fire.

The sky tonight, so without aliens. The woods, very lacking

in witches. But the people, as usual, replete

with people. & so you, with your headset, sit

in the home office across the hall, stuck in a hell

of strangers crying, computers dying, the new

father’s dropped-in-toilet baby

photos, the old Canadian, her grandson Gregory,

all-grown-up-now Greg, who gave her this phone

but won’t call her. You call her

wonderful. You encourage her to tell you what’s wrong

with her device. You with your good-at-your-job

good-looking-ness, I bet even over the phone

it’s visible. I bet all the Canadian grandmas

want you, but hey, you’re with me. Hey, take off

that headset. Steal away from your post. Cross

the hall, you sings-the-chorus-too-soon, you

makes-a-killer-veggie-taco, you

played-tennis-in-college-build, you Jeffrey, you

Jeff-ship full of stars, cauldron full of you,

come teach me a little bit

of nothing, in the dark

abundant hours.

The orchard was on fire, but that didn’t stop him from slowly walking
straight into it, shirtless, you can see where the flames have
foliaged—here, especially—his chest. Splashed by the moon,
it almost looks like the latest proof that, while decoration is hardly
ever necessary, it’s rarely meaningless: the tuxedo’s corsage,
fog when lit scatteredly, swift, from behind—swing of a torch, the lone
match, struck, then wind-shut…How far is instinct from a thing
like belief? Not far, apparently. At what point is believing so close
to knowing, that any difference between the two isn’t worth the fuss,
finally? A tamer of wolves tames no foxes, he used to say, as if avoiding
the question. But never meaning to. You broke it. Now wear it broken.