cold nights, headlight eyes
beam over open windows when
time (infant wind of eternity,
compass for the sun) neatly
places you awry; fog kissing the
virgin glass, you speak in smoke
and scales -- rippling in your wake.
someday, your voice will orchestrate roses
to a jealous death and
my eyes will not find beaches
at the end of the world. please
-- let me walk you inside.

Parallax
(for john kurtz)

on the soft green calendar
you refused to use, her hand
(quivering branches -- soft pine in
rainstorms) poised, marker pressed
elegant blood into life.

your heart; outlined weakly
two days after the hospital
(fields of snow walking single file
to the firing squad) workers
released you into the sun.

the bored face of God
stole your mirror and I watched
(cinder hands exalted -- raise
your altar of flesh) you sink
into the dead February dawn.