The Moment of Undoing

The world is on sale again --
his chest is a tire, undergoing
manditory inflation. We can't bring
ourselves to shut the door;
God, wherever he is sleeping,
has had a bad dream.

Weep again and she'll understand,
but hatred won't burn her eyes;
only fire, late at night, will do.
Smoke drifting Southward before winter,
Smoke lifting curtains and a tiger,
unchained, sprints into the field.

The scales fall to form their judgement
and, judgement made, passing regret,
we arrive once again
at the moment of Undoing. Where
shall he begin? She couldn't
begin to say, but underneath it all
was the scent of whiskey.

And in that first breath -- words
wishing to be unspoken -- he forces
a damp tongue out over his lips
and mutters his regards, turns,
and walks into the field.
It's in times like these, my boy,
that we need ourselves a guide.