The Convicted

Like the evolution of a new class, or order,

like the erosion of basalt into plastic parasols of grief,

here and there what we call choices, made at

two years old, three, four, eight, twenty,

to not be purely good, all selfless, not this time—

he came out from it like a thief in the lights,

wearing a brown beanie above his reflective eyes,

to face our conditioned judgment, our

snapped and anchored flowchart diamond.

​

While the Good rehearse and ritualize their choices,

avoid the orchestra-free alleys drizzled with solitude,

and name themselves something more than lucky,

he still lays in his screen-white sepulcher,

profanely speaks of us, atavistic squeakings of truth.

1, 2