.....

In the womb-cave
   thuds from the walls
  a weakening of welcome and atmosphere
    light hurts the neighborhood
          into my awareness of garlic
     as I lie down necessarily,
      in the place where my love is held,
                                to things that fail, in unadorned
                                                                     twilight
                            my friend lies down
 with his helmet switched to roman numerals
     and all his care stacked close
          to the upper hallways,
            where he has burned
                              a portrait.