There are more kinder ways to forget
then to trace the heart of things
I see so vividly  on your arms,
your public frightening places.

I want to tell you
that the lingering circumstance
of your alcohol lipped kiss
is not the only way to bathe,

not the only way to wash the night
from its gargoyles making fine young
love in the streets; the  buildings
pressed green from your slipping

absynthe hands.
I want to tell you that
you should eat more, you should
sleep more; the worry of my touch

a grind of bone turned to dust;
your name lost in a piece of cloth
held up to your face
coughing up the evening meal.

I want to say that
and yet I don’t,
the sneer of the mirror
allowing nothing yet.