The arrhythmic, two-legged, equestrian gait of bustling people multiplied,
Murmuring, under winded breath,
“Lazy son of a bitch” at his motionless body:
Cradled by the sun; slumbering not to cosset rest
But escape into a realm of dreams where he was king.
How we cry in a cherubic language spoken by angels behind God’s back,
In the hidden corners of Heaven.
Weep, my love, for the memory of your arboreal body,
Which, still clinging to trampled roots, played music with the wind
Even in my foul mood– as our love grows old and the butter brown–
I still can’t forget when I first loved her in the Tenderloin,
Near the San Francisco Bay,
When the thought of losing her first crossed my mind.
You hid a blade in your smile, its cold sharp in the blush of your cheek—
A peninsula glistening unyielding sterling—
Licking your lips, aiming for mine, you redirected their tranquilizing toward my forehead,
Unsheathing the knife with the sweetest honey
Of surprise, mightier than the pen and the sword, the word that proceeded out of your mouth—
Creator of all, the beginning of us, the end of me.