Marcel as a Montague
Franco-Anglo eyelids half frozen,

a sleepy blue
following you as
you merge into a room.

A skeleton laid out on a bed,
having fallen into a deep slumber
while wearing my coat.

I whisper his name
because it fills the night
with a ludic rhyme;

I whisper his name
because I love the way
it feels in my body,

on my mind,

on the way I bring
the sound up from my
throat; or

how he stands a little
slopped while I pull a comb
through his tangled hair.

I stood once, frozen
beside these mirrors
watching the steam sizzle up
from the drain pipes.

I once walked along
nights tongue looking
for Mantua, looking for
the sullied tombs, looking
for my own crypt,

waiting for a time when he was
laid out beside me,

and despite the hour
I wake him,

just to be sure he is there.