cement bleeding
or else they'll get you.

so you'll burn your fortune
with the genteel curling of
paper, too slow for pyromaniac
laughter but soothing your eyes

the boogies in your hell, when
they open the door you close
yours to see the almost smoke
of josssticks dancing in that

you cannot understand, but pray
anyway as you squat on the
stained pavement with red candles
(how coarse, how cultured).

and you always caution me from
death, footsteps and burnt paper,

i think i'm supposed to laugh.