(..)

Every day I feel the contours of your absence
slithering in my belly.
Every day I must allow
the flames in my shoulders to flicker down
and let my arms hang quite limply
in the water of life.

I strut around spending money and drinking
friendly laughter from the air, trying to stifle
for one more night the invincible disquiet,
the mortal hum.
Astral vines that grow from my pores
want to be bathed in the milk of your ribs,
your fiery outline on the wall
of a tumultuously growing forest,
the door that you are
and the cathedral that sprouts from around it.

Until my room is all moss
and my pen hand is cold
as a buried stone
somewhere on earth
I will think upon
how everything I love is lit by you
I will study
for the core of everything that suffers from thought
the fiberoptic crossroads
where desire burns against eternity
to extend and extend
its meek love and its proud love,
its loud love and its quiet love,
until all the fertile chambers of the unknown galaxy
break down to pour it out.