I’m scared of you,
I’m scared of those ancient lovers — those long forgotten suitors from a fetishized past that doesn’t include me.
I need to be included, even back then.
When Judas inherited the apple,
When the spear found its proper vessel.
When the wheel was birthed and treasured and rounded and perfected;
I need to be there. Or else I am scared.
And I am — of closing this pair of glassy bulbs, these plugs. A tireless strain.
My mind Lake Superior.
Bordering an opposition. Cherishing familiarity.
Knowing that a body moves elsewhere.
That a son is born,
A son is dying,
A crow sings its morning song, a hymn…
The mannequin prostitute on 17th St. earns a dollar — or she doesn’t.
A mother kisses her infant.
In the midst of that closed eyelid the images that exist only because they must.
Still I fear your beauty.
Lying in bed, not seen.
But it will be, and you will be.
And if I’m not there?
In those purgatorial pauses between half-dreams and dreams — the heavenly limbo.
Present in me a coxswain with a home on every horizon.