All those times you left. Moving slowly like the criminals we were. The cops sitting in their cars across the street know when and where we go. Our existence on a time clock whose wake up dirge jackknifes grief like a rain out on the lake poised to drink the bloodshot drops fixed in the darkening cruelty of one more death wish, one more heretic’s tongue to tame. In cups. The window open. We dance in reckless abandon. Because the apocalypse is thick with spies. We take none of their spy reports seriously.