for the drapes of death fall swiftly around me,
love has grown old and I am lying
on a heap of bones.
When the horrid face of a night grown angry
stares at me, speak the creative word,
word of prophetic meaning, word of astonishing beauty.
When words fail to make sense and I lose my composure
in the assembly of the stern, take me away somewhere,
where only doves moan and the laughing is real.
There is a desire I fulfill in fragments. I want to embalm
your bleeding heart with the ointment of kisses, tend
your whiplashed body with the medicine of praise,
you who remain quiet, you who let me slaughter you
with the alphabet of empty words.
When winter withdraws its frostbitten hand and the hills
are surprised by warm sun, I want to love you again
with that first love.
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