You know my heart

               is kin to our black monk.

               I took your hand

               and its taloned desire;

               my heart is right -

               such clench of appetite

               dwarfs the fallen crumb.





               You know how to conjure me:

               tuning barbed wire violin,

               crossroads,

               midnight,

               incense of thigh -

               a skull on a stick

               I must admit

               a most appealing touch.





               I am not without direction

               any more than the sea

               or the spill of your wrist

               or this fist of rust.

               But it wasn't my idea -

               you beckoned me from air

               to bear you mere

               total surrender

               but absolutely

               no answer.





               Together we confuse the night

               with a bonfire of the verities:

               weave the leaves into unknown saints,

               marrowing branches their bones,

               dust lost among the charnel millions





               as we are lost

               as we are lost in

               the flaring glimpse