in the dark of grimy
bars floral couches live
feathers (what a thrill beneath
neon green) in view of Saint
Maria’s grand brick parish
I unclasp Catholicism’s hands
from my neck (backdrop always holy
human touch) how can one believe
in anything other than getting fucked
up loving people at parties
unconditionally my friends I have
forgotten too many nights not
to complete the circle offered
under guidance of compass
and an unsteady hand
flicking the lighter
(originally published in Incessant Pipe, Winter 2021)