Unto these swollen bones,
my forehead at night,
you sometimes flew.
Backlit, nude, I made you images:
dogs of sand, clowns from shattered chalk.
You grew lilies in a damned field.
Yours, a yellow love. Yours, a great pain:
A slash, a Ragnarok, a tight distance to your Chicago.
I hate how you bent deeper into your fiction --
clever rings. Arise, warlike tongue. Arise, neon lords.
You, prince, boxing and fucking. You scar from it,
waiting like ladies do.
This season bends, formal, to my men.
You, too thin, punished, leave for the watershed.
