by Ralph Angel

Were you guilty of something
your story would wear a black suit
and come to an end.
I leave you alone.
I mop up the afterlife
and slick back
its hair.

The sun blows so hard
the leaves have returned to their trees.
Their eyes are wide open.
Saltwater fish

through the streets.

The pedestrian said there was sad
and oh how it would be
more interesting
to paint

her skin and hair.

Were I naked now
and am.