If I were not
me,
I think I'd be a
stained glass window

I saw a picture today
in a magazine
of a reflection, but also a shadow- an echo of
all of this window's
color on the
altar of a church and
God
if I could exist in a way that I could
see
myself and
allow myself to
fade away, into oblivion- an illusion
of all that I am, laid on the floor of a church-
I'd be a stained glass window

My life is an
ever
changing shadow
of blue,
a hazy smear of
  what looks like
a galaxy
carrying on
above you

I've been looking in the mirror
these days
and smudging my face with
my hand
so I can look
like
my shadow
looks when she sleeps in
the sand.

You told me,
with your amber
lips and breathy
words that speak like
resin falling from a
tree, honey in
the mouth
of a
   bee-

with your tongue
afraid to
break the seal that
you've made to
cradle and nurse
your thoughts, your
language

You told me,
lying on my bed,
your head on my shoulder,
up too late for an
alarm-clock morning, your
eyes closed.

You told me that
all you want is to be
full of passion
and to know how to talk about
Fine Art with
me.

When I knock on Death's door,
I'll bring a bottle of wine
and I'll be sunburnt and flushed

I'll arrive in a Hot Rod,
engine revving,
dressed in a cloud of exhaust

I'll arrive when the sun is setting
and the air's still thick and hot
and seeping
with summer

and I'll be laughing like
it's the Curtain Call and
I've received a
standing ovation

When I knock on Death's door
I'll rap five times
I'll take a deep breath
I'll rub my love-drunk eyes
and
when the door opens,
I'll be the perfect guest
and thank Death for the
invitation.