I had no eyes
until I saw the sun set

with a smile percolating
through golden leaves and
into me.

This same evening long ago
taught me how not to worry

of grand shadows huddled
impatiently at every corner

for they too withdraw
into periphery like all else

if you let them follow you
into the darkness.

At fifteen, your sepulcher was nearly

complete, dear lover, slabs of immutable

granite set in place with your premonition,

with the diligence of your lovely hands, then

christened with your blood disease.

At thirty, you brought out the worst in me;

you lived then died in the places you’d

grown to despise. You tiptoed away on

stiletto heels, crossing shifting shale,

so pretty, pretty in fine silk stockings.

I wanted to bleed for you. Instead I

embrace your vapor, and the lock of your hair

you kindly left me. The years have passed,

dear lover.  Your letters have yellowed

with antiquity, yet still, I wait at your Orphean

gate, pondering our jeweled romance and the

bludgeoned rats in our cellars.

Mother with her paintbrush and me with my fever. There are no miracles. There are no miracles because of what miracle does to memory. When I fall on the ice, ache takes one of my hands as a shortcut. Never reach god.

At one time
I would scour the skies
looking for the moon, the stars
and some odd galaxy

But now, distant as I am
And wont to hide
I wonder if they scour the earth
And look for me