Even in the galleries of beauty,

there are none like you.

On the electric boardwalk

where they twirl their finery

through the razor web

of a prize calendar

still

there are

none like you.

Your soul in evil solitude

like mine, you slim and fine,

quiet in the bamboo reaches,

quiet in the midst

of a cicada storm.

Tell me why

do I walk looking

when there are none like you?

Why do I wait

where you never come?

Only the time stripped bare

in your echoless clasp

can be redeemed

by sweat and blood.