in the rhinestoned
robe of words,
we set off and posed
from the top
of life's parade float—
protected,
we assumed,
from our loitering guilt,
by the glitter of logic
and self-righteousness
in air quotes.
We explained each small move
that we made
as we made it
as if
narrative arc
were a miracle cure
for the cancer of greed
turning sense
to Swiss cheese.
But looking back now
at the Polaroid
of memory,
we can see
why they laughed as we
taxied past, waving—
the armor we'd donned
to oppose
the old doom
was lying
like fiction, not
clothes, on our skin;
we looked pale
and thin—and impossibly
nude.
