Is it your blood
that crawls with art?
A bold union
that cries when the distant
sounds of Bach wisp from there.

I wonder if you were called
by the sudden beeping that
resembles the stain
on a rusty coin from a long buried culture.
America perhaps, but also Caesar.

All the while, we weary wounded
stumbled through charisma and over altars
pristine in silk and lace;
the holy plateau where snow falls only;
amidst this shipwrecked coast.

And above us all
waving and trembling.
And below us all
stains upon the snow
as charmed blood ran deep
to the ghettos of art and science,
collected in this Hermetic vessel
sealed but for a hole
where beauty alone caused tremors
to rage and spark in fires.

And you alone, bound by blood
saw through the night,
through the forest of dreams
to the stars.
Not being burnt by their light
was your cause; bound by blood.

The huntress emerged
swathed in fur
a thousand coins in her pocket
from every distant coast.

Gold capped and exotic
stones beneath her feet,
the scent of blood she did smell.
Once more into the fray
Once more she roamed.

I wondered at her meaning
and how she came in furs.
Was the huntress laying her sight
next upon me?

Would she penetrate the penetrator
to watch it sink beneath stagnant waves?
The blood and whiskey feeding fish
as she once more emerged
swathed in fur.

Time and the sea stripped gold from his face.
Caesar lay in ruins on a burning velvet bed
round him danced the debutantes and believers.
His sullen chamber lit by his burning velvet bed.

Through his window, mottled amber and blue
passed as shades long lost. All that remained
of Caesar, as gold was stripped from his face
now framed by a brilliant half moon;
A memory sent foreign on bitter tides.

In the summer
we will walk
the narrow
antique
streets.

The city sound
with midnight jazz
stolen and soft,
like the wind.
Cool and soft
as the wind,
wrapped its arms around us
the way I wrapped mine
around you.

In the summer
down the narrow
antique
streets.

They doused the lamps
and sent the realm into darkness.

The purest black we did ever see.

No street, nor home, nor lovers eye burnt.
Nor did the stars or the keenest minds
For they both shone dark.

And the realm sat hushed-
Silent and revered
Round the patter of words
that came as rain.

As the beat of rain
came as poetry.
And the realm sat round
the new fire.

There are creeks which shade made lesser cracks of
That spread as hands and ants up antique walls.
I brush those holes and think:
What breath have you spent?
What death have you seen?

He sits at the window;
His back to the world
His back to the rain and sleet
His back to the dying street.

From across the way I peer at him.
He does not know I am here
He does not care.
That dark figure framed by light
That rests across the street.

With courage I crossed
And came to meet
Only the king
Of rain and sleet
As I crossed the dying street.

And all I found were lowered gates;
Barricades of christian steel
And the dying monarch
With silent death peels.