The heroes have autographed the table again / with their glasses, rings of condensation / in looped cursive circles that interrupt / / each other’s epics.
God forget-me-not / come replenish come wounded blood-let weary / undone fallen / trailing crimson promise
He in his godlessness does not see a settling.
I would send / / the song welling in the bird, but keep / the seam of gold silent / / in its earthen bed.
whispering / through the keyhole / the same question / night after night
What was it Juliet said? Not nomenclature of rose / or Romeo. Not to Lawrence about lurking beneath / serpents’ skin or lying with dead men’s bones. Not / to the vial about this conceit of death and night, / / receptacle of flesh and memory. But in the tomb, / after she had bent to plant one on her husband’s corpse, / to divert his rigor into the troubled pool of her flesh
But for now, the lunch eaters are sleeping. You / are waking up, or brewing coffee, or making love / to someone else. What a strange April this is.
In what black hour, what rainy city, / what world without light, is that bridge / and I will cross it.
Do I believe in God, god, gods? No. No. But. No. Yes. Maybe. No. Yes.