A White Curtain, Closing

Somewhere in the middle
of the darkest black midnight,
a clock wonders backward
in search of conclusion.

Time itself is a domesticated prostitute
laid out underneath the forefinger of your
burgeoning sence of fatherhood.

And the curtain closes,
somewhere during the deepest chimes
of that same wounded clock,
cacophonous,
a melancholy catchphrase,
and I'm holding some sort of dead life-force to my breast.

Holding it in my hands.
Feeling the limp weighted bone,
white cloth pulled tight over skin.

A corset still acts as a coffin to my rib bones.

The kind of cage that cranes upward
in the blur of full height spreading above me,
like the clock,
still plastered to the mantle,
honey-mahogany,
a jet black stream of widowed warlocks
sprouting up from the sky.

And I point out the constellations to you.
All of the opal-faced carnations full in bloom
in a sky deader than your swollen erection,
rising,
like a westward wind,
in queue with the curtain rising,
for this,
my performance,
my shriek,
my cloaking face feigning unnamed nonsense.

I was a shaft of sunlight falling into the chinks of a storm drain,
fog on your window pane,
a sweetly sour refrain.

And those same chinks,
like a thousand foreheads parting
beneath the barrowed brow of October,
someone telling me that I am Polish,
yet, No, I say,
I am a Russian bridge erupting,
like silken petals from my mother's Irish womb,

long dead, long empty now.

Yet, I still hold that fallen life to my breast.
Pull cold fingers to my cheek,
feel the crisp haunted halo of a Ferris wheel,
like a neon moon, bubbling up from the night,
the last love song, the last spoken wrong.

And a white curtain slides downward,
ending the evening in a fit of sparks and rages,
and with the elbowing of it at my side I lower my body in,

underneath it all,
behind that condemning concubine of time.