The Fixity of an Obscene Idea

Again, it is the living ghost who sits,

dressed as a stereotype.  Proof

already rendered its services—

its quiet current pulsing through skeletons

whose senses have strayed.  Distant conversations

discover our mutual flesh.

 You uttered this one desperate sentence

and waved pieces of gray cotton under old ebony tables.

Into the arms of each other—where sleep dare not down

the fallen birds.  Distracted by the young man’s usual steadiness,

we cannot see the lips that are well worth the feels. 

You can think of those last leafy branches vanished,

the last woman loved pink satin and dropped her fur

next to the fire.  She heals all defects and that induces him

to lower his head before the nightfall gives this iris

honorable youth again.