detective story (p.)

this lazy Lou Reed music you 
can barely hear with your ugly/
unwelcome face against the keyhole: 
door to black/violent nowhere. 

I'm pretending to be some kind of 
 detective 
or journalist, or someone 
with an important & intelligent 
 career. 

the zip went out of the economy and 
 such-and-such. 
your mother's dead pets will 
 ignore 
memories of the scent 
 of her hair. 
(some gods are simply proficient 
 in fire: this disqualifies them 
from neither kindness nor insight.) 

let the vicious scar of what we don't have 
repair itself. 
If it 
has to. 




**** 

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