Incongruous nights, my horoscope tells
me, dragonflies whir, iridescent. I would like
to catch one, tie it in your flagrant red hair,
but I can’t right now.
Prayers ascend behind me, elaborate as
oratorios, a stained cathedral key.
I am blind and solid as malachite,
these statues of saints.
On Broadway I saw a sun-white cow’s skull on
a Navajo blanket. Trying to make sense
of this, flotsam, jetsam of my unconscious,
silver waves crashing,
the beer turns almost warm as blood in my hands.
I won’t look up when you leave / your cigarettes
here, a shadow. For them you return. We kiss
through a wrought-iron gate.
The one night in my house, our hair entangled,
anemones in flow and ebb, you felt my
pulse. Love, I thought; but your questions for me were
O and how I am tired, a womanly tired
of all that I have tried, and truly, I look
to you, through you, for something, a heart that beats
gentle as velvet.