I will rest

in the socket

of an artificial mercy,

raging against time

for your love.

You touch the silver,

you perch in our favored lowlands

on carved and curving wood

eaten by the open doors.

Faint blue eyes

and braids of southern gold

will not save me from

the darkness behind the glass,

the howl of wounded plastic.

Resigned to flesh

older than the spirit,

I watch from the distance

that your beauty is,

I die in the rush of urgent air

to nowhere.