Your teeth are silver—

you swear they are white.

Sun dripping through your fingers—

you tell me it does not shine.

God bless you, sir,

and your endless hunt

for reason.

I remember every name of you,

every mask you

tried to scrub away.

I sing your poems,

your praises,

burning with

condescension.

Is it great,

feeling known?

Is it great,

to have so many

willing to die

by your words?

Well—

you’re dying too.

and I guess that means

I’m already dead.