St. Graveyard Shift

Undressing in candlelight, I see the quick shadow-movements of a rock-cleft Madonna in the corner of the room. Some proto-Mary, flickering through a series of caves.

At this hour, blue-glint off a black dog's back.

My last boss told me he and his wife sometimes scattered cash across their bed, then fucked. He needed to confess this to me.

At this hour, the charred woman stirs inside her mother.

Every dollar bill I have ever stolen I've pasted onto my bathroom wall. When I move, I will slip out in the middle of the night, leave the bills behind. The landlord will spend hours — days — slopping the wall with water, gently peeling one dollar from another.