What it must be to watch the callouses
fall from your fingertips. Drying dishes
in the key of C, keeping time with the waitresses's
tom, falling into your own monuments
or an angel's sword. It's a quartet you've
recorded years ago nobody's heard
that squeaks, squirms from the speakers
before you. Cerulean guitars
and coded words you can't even make
out now beckon to you like the angel
Gabriel--the mouthpiece of God.
Did he tell Lot's daughters to sleep
with him in that? Did he commission
the arson we committed that night
in your bedroom.
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