The disaster was born from a plentiful spring;
and by the by, I do not think it was your fault.
And while it would be a fortuitous extension,
it cannot be soundly lulled by inflicting the blame
upon me:

I would take it
If I knew it
And slice the peach
Past my thumb

You had shadows once, I gather, but you
left them for an orange wall whose chrome
now hides under the setting sky, and a
wife, and a class full of respiring
mementos of your own childhood.
You had shadows--- but were they your mistresses?
Perhaps not, for it would preclude sternly
the loose, goofy ease sometimes mixed
in the pigment of your smile, that awesomeness
and personal brilliance, the same light
which you sleep by:

You may know
My prayers; I've
Spilt them here

My peers are faceless dancers whose skin
is made of bright rags and blaze-colored scarves;
they twirl and embrace in young sufism
leaping fearlessly over all six inch pits and
weak candle flames. From them I pluck
this sparkling gauze to drape over my face.
If you have seen me under even that frail feint
you know me not:

My lips are
Deceiving as
My thighs and
My promises.

Pray tell, when shall I rise from bed
hit the floor with my aching calves
so that many little ornaments crush under
my bare leather feet? I want to bleed
just as much as I want to hate again; to spread
and proliferate my contempt till all around
me is barren and ashen, some hell
of an Earth:

The illness cures
Itself when the
Face dissolves.

And still the
treasure will be