Stale air, claustrophobe—
a terrible fit for a coffin,
this person—
he can languish here.

A good warmth, the kind
you feel after bourbon
deep in your chest, yes,
a very good warmth—
the kind you won’t find here.

Here, is where, as gentlemen say,
“the wicked rest”
as there is, indeed,
no such rest for men like that.

I am wicked, I suppose,
wicked in my own way, so
I deserve the test.
I will languish here.

in deep tissue
I remember things
that must have happened when
I was someone else
in another life

a cause irritant
entrenched because
it flows out from me,
or my mouth, at least,
at certain times

I couldn’t say
if I knew the story
from staring at these
Kodachromes
I’d kept in storage

or if I’d really
died before
and been reborn,
to bleach the cancer
so I could sleep better.