I could tell you how the Square looks
sketched in moonlight;
I know the smell of mist fresh off the river,
and night air that parts like tired curtains,
with wet heat that sighs
and slaps the dock when you move on;
I’ve felt what a saxophone does
to the heart
over water,
and how a man’s voice sounds best after smoking,
but a woman’s is best after ***.

There are ghosts in these streets,
but they don’t hunger anymore;
hunger is for the living
not satisfied
with light.

Fascination:
rosy contrails,
trembling cream.
This body
vault of heaven,
it opens;
Oh, clever artist.
Turn your nails up
score the sky;
violet swims
beneath the surface;
there are pearls,
ripe as grapes,
behind the door.

Oh, such colors.
Such color.

Yours
is peaceful strength;
I see you settled,
ankle perched on knee,
head bowed
with the weight
of male thoughts;
alien mind,
I cherish you for
that little smile
cast in my direction,
hardly a twitch
of those subtly
curved lips
but I see,
I see.
Oh, if I could
press you
into myself and
drink the masculinity
of you, become one
with it and
truly know what it is
to be a happy man,
I would.
For me, it is only ever
the imperfect joining,
the spill of fluids
and your ragged breath
caught in the cup of my
mouth.

Do not say, "I am a goddess." Say instead,
"I should like to be a goddess in his eyes
while they hold mine, their light enfolding
everything including the clay at my feet."
What comfort in a crown of stars?
Accept the soil between your toes
and take the hands offered;
help them part your mysteries
reveal your precious, undeniable flaws.

Stroke your arm and think:
The universe is bloodless,
Not I; this body
of flesh, veins, soft pulsing heart,
made to spill, to break;
Life, to the beat of mad drums,
or hands on my skin.
The universe is bloodless;
Not I, this body of flesh.