Alone In London With Him

wandering: poems start that way, they often do.

waking as his
lover rather than
any-body else I
hand him an anthology
of French poets while
on the wall we share
above his bed he
traces out the roots of modernism
and Picasso is hung by piano wire
from the ceiling.

he says that this is the only-place
he can be he and no-one so that
I belong there. how it is wandering
in his bed. mine. there is nothing
here mine tho' I sprawl over
Appollinaire and Verlaine
just as he does. but no scent of hyacinth now.

we are in London

outdoors it is breaking dawn,
the early-morning people
shopping and their voice
have not yet reached his window
(which we are sharing).
he turns to me. there is no secret
in his eyes because all the secret
that can be has gone into the fashioning of me.

and his hands
are feather pinions
as flight and not
his eyes are the color
of eagle and pool.
on the casings
over his beloved
Picassos I can
see the darkness
under my eye.
I shall die for him it does
not matter
how or whether or
not I really do,
some night we will
be in rain and all
the cries and noise of
London shall be about
us and he will say

"enough! Enough!"

a flight
to Madrid by
any-moon and the
moon is not smiling
more like the pale when
you believe you
want people
to know you are

I wonder if she is his lover. That is how it is.
if I were not so
painted by cubism and
written over in his lovely
modernistic poetry
than I should be sad.

there is plane tickets somewhere in his room that we are sharing. I have never seen Madrid in spring