I hear my heavy pulse like “rum,” like a thunder debate.
And of course, I smoke. I smoke thickly with my feet crossed,
Linoleum floors, creaking old dogs pacing ruts in the floor
Click the beat of the clock, of my thrum confused by
Its question: how did I get to sitting on this floor,
In the half-dark, with myself and a small glass and other heads,
A dog, a hand over mine like a prayer for a quilt being
Answered and since I smell like bonfire,
And there are not nine cinders in my hair like a
Tarot, Pentacles,
The Devil
The devil isn’t in a clean white bed at the top of the stairs
room down, In this empty house we cluster,
dogs digging trenches and jewels glowing through the floor.

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