An Auto-da-fé

the decanter. You, the just destroyer,

have in faith become the role, recalling

for those gathered the noble fallen

with a prayer to his-grace-above-fire,

(“Turn me, I’m burnt on that side”)

St. Lawrence. Well done, I applaud.

And you: Well executed.

This is it. Not much else to await

when our fates touch: I’ve nowhere to be

but eternity, you’ve nothing to catch

but the thatch. Dry on dry,

we keep our wits about us . . .

no one to meet but our match.