naked, inhabited faces for

your eyes, and the marks time sets around them.

Separate travel

out of a suitcase

and a bookbag I

kept easy faith

                             and you

wore out and lay down

the body that made

love possible

                           sanctuary

that porch

those rocking

chairs we promised

ourselves betrayed

Processing

Death is developing and printing your sculptured

lips and your perversity in my head's

dark room with improved contrast

against the ground of the past.

A smooth flat olive hand

seen against table or sheet, a few black

hairs at its back, and the thumb, the same that pressed

a cigarette out on flesh

and guided the large letters over

your yellow pages, coalesce.  Lover

of images, are you seeing the shape of these?

Quick step captured

in the rapid knee's angle, the wrist

caught throwing something away, the eyes

lidded, the bones light, the shoulders slightly

turned, going away

alone down cruel streets

to imagined corners, gloating back with secrets

to half reveal, challenging love to know and hold

the rest unspoken.

Report (updated)

Full of flame

that leaped to others' need

for light, I burned once to burn

bright, turning from soft rooms'

lamps to famished

dark, not for love of

night, but absorbed in my pleasured

flaming.  Close to the verge

was where I chose to live,

where sparks fly, and midnight

lights the fire that will

can't strike.  I knew

a chancy boy when we were both

immortal.  Now they speak

of him and death,

speak of sickness and you.

                                               Continue   In Love With the Angel

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