The small square
of moon, unleavened
was the only thing
in the room that
resembled promise.


Our gestures were careful
not to make love, travesty,
Yet the naked of my body
opulent--
nipples like two perfect
brown centers,
my cunt folded outward,
towards you,
as if breathing--
was still poorer when you
touched it.


I ripped off Sexton
admiring your mouth blooming
like a cut,
your lips damask
from wine
and too much poetry.
They kissed in solemn testimony
but still failed,
the way you taught me
that words unavoidably do.


I pretend I am your
mistress
spread like a Passover meal,
the blood on your door frame,
the scarlet cross
warning others not to come.


Sometimes you read to me Rimbaud
more stolen words
of some great
(It turns me on anyway)
And we both listen
to the imperfect murmurs
of voice
where dawn arrives too quickly
and the cock always crows
thrice.