the devil tucks a nightgown into his wife’s suitcase.
he is meeting the casual interference of touching an ancient surface.
he thinks about being hungry.
water boils in the kitchen and the air duct whirrs.
he will let go now.
the devil decides to remake himself.
he tends to a dying garden.
the garden doesn’t take it well,
being exposed to secondhand cinder heart and all.
he resolves to fix the ventilation, but do we believe him?
dreaming something sweet, his home is burglarized.
the police are doubtful.
it looks like a fitting emptiness.
the devil hooks up with his insurance agent.
she can’t cook bacon and he’s floored like a fuckin hypocrit.
the devil watches the scorched tendrils.
pomegranate plants gnarling.
he digs them up drunkenly on one early morning.
the devil takes monstrous bites and spits peach pits into holes in the ground.
a great tree grew
he starts cooking classes and takes it seriously.
gets crafty with cobblers
opens a cute shop selling pies in cardboard iron maidens
he gives them to other workers on holidays and throws them
at his ex-wife’s adulterer
jan09 – brennan mcmullen