One Hundred Nails

To the Cat God:

There’s one last sour drag left on this rollie,
and, though you wouldn’t hit it, it’s for you.
Tumescent lungs, I offer to you wholly,
but who could save the Devil from his due?
There’s one good finger, left out to decant.
It’s yours to save or sip or shoot it down,
an off’ring to the dead, a pitcher plant,
an ointment jar in which I’ll lastly drown.
I’d leave to you the remnant; claim your right.
My squinting eyes cannot discern the source,
but I can hear the roar, consumed by light.
I tremble and anticipate the force.
I’ll write a hundred coffin nails to drive.
Each one I burn reminds me we’re alive.

From a dead buck