Stand before objects accompanying the saints to signify their place upon earth. From the devil's column of heat I'm fading in the sun. The haze of oil deepens in light. Like: a pile of toppled headstones, the cranium of a dog, body on a mattress on the floor. Memorial is effectual. The steward of the paint asks the most delicate of questions. At the strike of the peace chord I'm losing love. I need a sting. Wraith of a scorpion.