For all love is born out of a dark, out of a letter,
the persecution that spreads amidst the drained holes of choice-
out of a weary separation of head thrown back, neck craned against wood,
the true likeness of stone. The dark is an imperial gaze,
dandy, strapping and strong, munching metal-noise, truly noice,
obviously strung for a price. Dark can’t level, only analyze
the distinction between tears and tropes, the limit of a gimmick
that was clipped on a string, drenched and adolescent.
Dark is not the choice of photography but who has his mad eyes raised
to the fortune of automatism, to the terrace where blank steps hurtle ahead
to reach for a dusk that can be raged; over time,
strange accounts are opened. Office becomes a blade,
a staple with the scent of a lover trades itself for impression
(Love against the wall, tacked with thumb, pressure against the edge,
merciful arrogance, cocky cocky boy with whom I color my tongue
and my body, by clutching your neck closer and becoming the toucan,
in our dark and our ether, in our mouths and our births).
Soda gulped down the throat has its own morbid thought,
but not for long, not until the straw builds our house,
with a ceiling made of arms.
Rather, the risk has been framed, the blinds through which
horns intrude for duty summons remain winced as an eye with
dark circles, dark bringing for itself the juice of intent-
intent that splurges into love, intent that splurges,
far-reaching, intent that snuggles inside a blanket speckled
with strewn cloth, inside being the warmth, the heart, the shuteye