the silk can wait, orpheus,

the suffering is never mindless if it runs deep enough

that when you close your eyes

you can understand time dancing

her long laps in inconsistency.

he

lays his nakedness by the grill of a parked truck

flashing white on the silent highway

  where night suffers

his

own depressions.  

       and the hyacinths will bloom !

oh, will they bloom purple

as the sky   when it nears the desert,

  but for now,

the blood pooling from his head is the solid frost of time, still -

   bouncing light, a sliver of silver to burst the red momentarily.



orpheus, the pounding at your door can wait for a while.

you’ve your own mourning to do.

  do you smell of sweat? does your 4 day stubble itch while the oil soaks your pores ?

  when you lay back on your broken bed, do you smell ***** on the sheets?

a damp on the waist band of your track suit bottoms?

do you thirst, a ***** mug by your head but you’ve not the energy
to walk
5 paces to the bathroom because
  almond flakes stick to your soles
like hungry flies.

hyacinth can wait,

    the sun implores -

throw the blind open and fill your lips
with ice.

stretch,

and be  alive.