Find me a priest, a glass of whiskey, a boat

to sail across the finish line, someone

to help bail the water out. Doors won't stay closed:

I see you on the other side looking back at me.

We wave. We float through walls, leave the taps running,

appear between sheets. I should perform an exorcism,

wrap your feet with chains and toss you overboard.

Ashes to ashes. I troll the surface of the water,

gathering what's left of you in my hands.

You are currently in the middle
of a clear cut. I lay awake wondering
what you are planning to build on your
allotted acre. A stone chimney, a porch,
a place for imagined dogs to run?
I look into the well you'll dig and see
the distant flicker of my face.
The stumps are pointing fingers:
(You) (I) (it's a cul de sac) (We both know
how) (to handle an axe).