Purgatory

I’m scared of you,
Your beauty.
I’m scared of those ancient lovers — those long forgotten suitors from a fetishized past that doesn’t include me.
No. 
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. 
Closing them,
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.

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