All Sales Are Final
Effigies left on the sallow map of the body.
The beginning as short as the end was long.
The muse’s song a sepulcher to his wayward mouth.
Plundered from such minimum catastrophes.
She became an ark brimming with thresholds.
Beheld in the crowning of dawns.
With thousand-yard stares hung from the nightstand.
Who can say we are not our own means and ends?
Where the faithful sundered and myth was in turn.
In text messages poised like daggers.
From shuttered windows we are all beholden to.
Immersed in warm Smirnoff flowering from hands.
A narrative as crooked as the branches of a Judas tree.
Fractured in the dry riverbed of names.
Andrew Revie is a poet in Northern New Jersey. His work has previously appeared in Petite Hound Press. He was nominated for a 2016 Pushcart Prize. firstname.lastname@example.org