Please come in: go all the way back
to the old closet past the kitchen
where the priests left their wine-stained robes.

Where the arms and legs of hallowed toys
that never worked, never played
are buried in the graveyard of lies.

Let the drunken robes sleep on,
undisturbed;
but clear away the empty bottles
of belief.

For every time I touch them,
I bleed onto the edges
of their granite labels.