we polish the silver
by cutting the bloodiest steaks,
by having flesh parties on gravel inclines.
that's where we make music with trash,
and cut our deadlines out of the blueprint.

but that isn't where we slide down long polished
wooden tables on our buttoned bellies

and that isn't where we plan the weather
in our tinfoil hats,

making the chimneys weep
their chimneysweeps with brooms on sticks
into the ashen afterworld
into the living room
sheathed in shadows it once drew back,
letting its only garment drape.