I couldn't have
thought it alone,
to render desire
without a tint of coal,
no slimy paints
or watery drools,
But I have passing
headlights in my face,
refractions off
the bodies' clothes
ahead of me,
the turn of my blood
like tires
humming too fast
and close at the curb.

Walking,
I page through
comic books
by streetlight
under stars.
My best eyes flare
like broken coveys,
falter in the time
of yellow car-beams,
colors lurid
and forms heavily
curved and bulged.

With all this,
I shall read Ulysses
by strobe light,
peel my hands
inside out
for a fresh start,
trust more my feet
on the crooked sidewalk
blunt as ambush,
wish again
the light were steady,
and let whatever
hopes may flower.

But glinting slivers,
bottles and spit
collect in
street drains,
neon drone
and the steadiest glare,
coronas at every tear,
weak distinctions
at every flashing phrase,
for I cannot breathe
fast enough
to say it all,
much less to sing.

Finally,
the story will lie,
finished as ever,
whitest light
upon the cover closed,
a holocaust
like a dream
of loosed pigeons,
like a trilliion
photographs,
each line to be
traced by hand,
each hollow and rise
of its terrain
touched lightly
and at length
to remember.