and—
—face buried in breasts
that smell the sweat of other men—
a heaping swell of yes-eyes that
i torch with flattery to flame—
the blackened denarii they slip to me
as the fire burnishes, then hush—
burning women on their way out of life—
nevermind saying to my mother, my wife: forever here,
loyal, an endless flame—and in the morning gone—
at the side of dusty roads, aching
in my sandpaper sandals, too sold to satan to cry—
too drunk on watery wine—
too squelched with the heat of unending sun—
yet onward the conceit and somewhere trod—
life barely keeping me alive—
he is risen.
