. . . marry him.

1

of course,
he will gleam like photons
tangled in sheer joy.

where i harvest dead localities,
he will sheath the touchstone nerve.

his voice will soothe great quandaries
like growling cicadas solve summer nights.

his eyes will break into blessed anointments.
his lips will pierce the frighteners
and spill their silver antidotes -
a cure for every blasphemy,
a pardon for every criminal.

remember who he was,
a mystic lisping empathy
for pure, unbottled moments,  
a silence worming through bicycle wind,
a gender scribbled on a brainstorm,
the flashing of satori
in the scatter-shooting cosmos,
a wonderer, wondrous
with no guilty body,
a boy's fond familiar
who keeps a tail feather of god
stuffed in a bag of beetle legs
and cats eye marble galaxies.  

no,
i suppose i was never
him,
the one who was meant to apron you,
to feed the thirsty virginities
that open up
beneath your womb. . .

i'm not the one to paper you
with sanctuaries and closet troves,
with wordless
manifestos

singing
down the
sadness.

i'd like to séance with this untold wraith,
finger to finger,
my saintly trajection
to whom I bear so little resemblance
having shed his gray matter
so many times
over
coffee and acid and blood-milking
        reenactments
   of
animal

creation(ism).

2

living
has been about losing secrets, forgetting codes, traumatic
self-inducements.
I want to know what i've spent into loss:
the undefiled meadow
lurking in souls of parking lots,
the nameless dis-identity,
loving
what he can only be: the bend of black oaks,
cold snaps' crooked mount,
growth notes' steady dose
dotting back to a giver
who was first
to have
nothing,
and still
needing nothing;
filing ants
to the
sun.


3

look,
i'm not unwashed, unstudied.
i have degrees for all of my adversities,
a curse for each genetic psalm
disemboweled
from muddy stupas.  

here,
in margins of my anthologies,
the speaking lines of my pantomimes,
i have penned a death threat for every prayer
unfolding his likeness
like door cracks
of floor light
that brook his unbearable being
into gasping for blindspots
in a tree-limbed July.

4

if you should find him . . .