In the end, the cabinet doesn’t care.
Bone-hued rounds shimmy your brain,

and who could save you from the choiring black?
Each of our Gods switched for an off-the-shelf supplement.

I watched you ride those prescriptions, like rodeo pigs,
to some unconcerned paradise.

I felt the sun stride in and out of your mouth,
heard the deals you cut with devouring,

a free admission to the back of your throat.
A trade to powder-fuck yourself helpless.

I know now I didn’t know the cue and the call,
that rushing gurgle nailing your steps to the sky.