Where do you worship when you've
been exuded
from the fire escapes of every building
that you've ever been blessed inside,
when all the holy skin
you've been revering night after night

comes to a shuddering end
like a life line slipping
out of chafed fingers? Sirens wail
wantonly during the peak of the moon's
reign, and
is it an ambulance or
a body that will salvage you in

your most vulnerable
hour, after
you finish playing the part of the secret anti-hero
and have nothing left to give
but platonic ecstasy? Cheap
lighters
are littered behind your departure

like footprints, but
the useless
manifestos you preach behind every moan
won't ever be forsaken
in your trail of dust and suggestions
of abeyant arson,

because you're just living how
you were born to endure: like a star, burning,
burning, and far away.