DEFROCKED ENDING Poem by Erin Mouré

Tomorrow's hand-locked.
Nothing can uncurl its fingers.
Artful
or touching on artful, it is a suit unworn
as if the suit in itself, hung up and artful
could jab outward and deliver me a punch.
Nothing about scandal.
It's a suit in itself unworn
about to unhang itself and
deliver me a punch.
Nothing gives priority to such a meeting.
Nothing soars, no stars, no moon.
Everything's a mimic.
As such, it's gone punchy. And i'm aching
or loquacious,
veering closer, mug up, leaning into the punch.