you don't get to be a saint the dead man says
you get to warm your hands for a moment
you get to catch your breath and say one thing
Patrick Friesen

So you don't get to be a saint. Martyrs never last this long.
Guess I'll never be the one to defeat desire in song. Here's a
marker, here's my naked skin, our Exhibit A. Put a small x
where I lost my way. All the actors broke their legs, and it's
too late to postpone. The producer's getting high, and the
audience went home. Smile and take your awkward bow.
Turn and stumble off the stage. Let the rain be your applause,
every encore soothe your rage. Squint with one eye, hum a
show-tune, and wait for your ride to say, "Oh, that's where
you must have lost your way." Megaphones in helicopters
squeal, "Hey, are you okay?" as searchlights circle where we
lost our way. All our accidents went purposeful and fell,
stripped of providence or any way to tell that our intentions
were intangible and sweet. Sick with simple math and shy
discoveries, piled up against our impending defeat.