elegy. It's a kind of static game we play
where the hungry and unfathomable
remain so. It's a kind of spiritual
anorexia.
Legs crossed, legs crossed,
as simple as yeast, while in the backseat
of an empty cop car Hamlet and
Ophelia's heads bob and rise
in tandem like blonde-sweatered stars.
If not now, will Lazarus crawl into my bed?
The sweetness of earth will have
vamoosed and lepers will give us
new names.
It's a kind of dance where you swallow
both me and yourself.
Older and older men will crawl into my shelves
and fill me with their bullets.
It's a kind of interminable sonnet in which
love creeps from your room
and from my room and from age
creates eternity in skin.
It's a kind of crucifix to which we press
our virgin foreheads,
lifting warm untasted Eden
to our lips.
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