We’re both wanted men
but none of us knows it just yet.

I’ve looked at you differently
ever since you told me:

I’d rather it all burn to the ground
than begin to clean up this mess I’ve made.

Maybe you didn’t mean it, but I did.
If it all would just disappear,

I could start over too.
What would you do if I chose to save

cartons of milk just because
their expiration dates

were like birthdays, stockpiled
newspapers and dented cans like Doric ruins

in my living room, rewrote
the true gospel so I could save

nobody’s soul,
nor a cent for retirement?

I burned it all down just to see
how your eyes bobbed outside

the fishbowls of your lenses; it burned
so I could pull out your circuitry

by the handful until your towering frame
was almost weightless.

The past is in wet piles, charred rubble.
You would have done the same for me.