A Lover's Tale --

tell me why you cried, why

you slipped, there, on the terrace, waiting

for your love -- would he

be sure of his lines, would

he hold the door for you, would

he faint in the hot wind

or die at your feet -- Who is he, this

Specter, spirit wandering

through

corridors of Saints and Villains, the

fool knowing

what a fool's worth? -- Is

he alive or vivid, Stalled

on concrete blocks, bullied

about by old friends

posing as guides? -- Is he

thin as a rail? -- What

does he instill in you? -- does

he drive you to drink, oiled

partitions in cultured pearls, a

Numbing of

senses divine?

(Has he painted you with a broad brush

and lifted your form high in the wind?)

Does he abate?

All the winding Sisters of an Unspoken Glory

come devouring, slipping past the gate, past the dogs, into

the bed-chambers, wielding fire

and brimstone, soldering together

those

disparate unclean moments into molten

ice, these

muses savvy

with long histories of stretched imaginings and

the wiry wings of

angels . . .

*