Vamping on the Sound of Besottedness

Ruins behind St. Johnathon
Statues in the park, broken and bristly
Soldiers standing at ease for the parting of a neighbor

Too swollen to make to the kitchen
Where a reception of heavenly auteurs wait
there are no shadows of the family

left right where it fell
as though these songs were intended
for the moment of stolen sounds
On the crisp-like turning of damnation
Docile and manifest by my own hands