for Craig Conley
THIS IS LAST NIGHT
This is the moon, and this is the street, and this is the house, and this is the gasoline poured over the bed and its comforter, the worn carpet and down the stairs, through the kitchen, the family room and into the basement. This is the matchbook and these are the matches. This is the hand and this its handful of Percosets. This is the rum and this is the car, and this the unidentified accelerant poured over its seats. This is the road and this is the mountain and this the moon and this is the cliff and the roadside grass and the place where people, often lovers or photographers, stop to look at the city. This is the guardrail and this is the mouth trying to throw itself over, and this the hand that was burned, and this the cool glass of water, and this the story of what didn’t happen, though there were flames, and ash, and emergency vehicles, and ventriloquists throwing their voices out of close and painful places such as the moon, eleven o’clock, and a slow breeze.