The apocalypse perches

on my lap and drags

the years across

the water to my throne.

This summer I saw

your ghost stake a claim

on the highway

as faceless grievers

sneak their tokens

across the underworld.

My breath fogs up your

shadow, spits into

the fist of death.

Who will set

the clock hurtling

back to passage,

who will mouth

the knobs of your knees

after a Sunday feast.

The book, donned with

wrestled angels

and forsaken loves,

is not survivable.

When I pray

it is for the palm

that feeds me:

a dog stripped to

the bone for praise,

none of my tricks

ever outrun the

trick of your smile.

Sick of heartbreak,

strummed with tired light,

let me have this—

my heart the meat

of your choosing,

nerve of your nerve.