I’ve held in my hands
a thousand pretty deities
and all the ugly ones
Turned them over, inspected them
for authenticity
crushed their life out,
saved my breath
for my own resuscitation

Buried them
under mounds of ash
from old deposit slips
and torn-off clothing
(the buttons, when they burn
are worn out tires)
and letters written late at night
to no one in particular
ribbons from cassette tapes melt
and scar their holy corpses

There is nothing in their flesh
that makes them real

There is no kind of belief
can make them whole.