the oxidation of all you stole,
and specific tinge in your memory--
lifted from marrow.
a celluloid pantomime rot.
the discord of voices
you pry from your angels,
the smiles and tears you can reap.
weeds in your garden, orgasmic fruit,
needles that fall by the trunk of your pine.
this is the catch in the throat of your prayers,
the itch in your seat while polling salvation.
crime less perfect if ever there was,
evidence planted in stone.