Für Mein Trommler

you are paper-thin lightning
a sweet liquid baritone

the fluid pinging of a harp.

you are the sweet-smelling juice dribbling
down children's chins from the pulp of a skinned

peach.

you are fragile, a marzipan Eros
whose warmth i cradle in the curve of my spine;

great Greek confection surveying
with affably lung-numbing eyes from
the backs of my eyelids.

you are edgeless, my lone
luckless hazel-eyes, edgeless

and i am the sea in which
space leans on space and collapses,
introuvable.

(fragile) and this is the fear:
to build not an edgeless eternity
but one faceless and underfed

star which bangs out its fizzling
on a moonless celing;
that we shall wake, as dreamers do,

to obscenities scrawled black
across the sun.

(love, and love! cry Eden's
exiled children: love;
j'avais mon coup de foudre et
the heavens collapse with a slow roar.)

your armor is clean and undented.

no, no, no, no
you can't handle me.