On a street near Silver Way I saw that God was glass-blown and remembered the things I saw in your smile under a banner of banter and baubles we kept like crows. Put me in your cubby hole for walk-home hand holds. I am asked, “Why do we listen?” and my silence is a biting retort in those seconds before we get caught up again in breathing. These bodies seem less like fragments, more like burst stars; some days I know I am comprised of nebulas and holy water stitched too tightly back together. How are we so beautiful? Keep your assessments of decades spent under your influence, I’m more like influenza now, giving you night sweats and purging your contents, keeping you plagued. Our brand of loyalty is inscribed in the word hate, like Rosetta Stones in our gallbladder, pass the time with the anger in the mirror and one finger pointed out four more back at you, so foreign. I am done settling for second best, I will be covered in ashes to show you I am a vision of permanence performed. Give me those years, I gave back the rewards.