Chicago in May

By morning, blood’s pumped into our wings.
Tarmac oozing forth mirage colours scars
and taxis pain out of and into the heir of our veins.

Your sons emerging like a plague of cicadas, I claim
my first mister; baggage laid hard at seventeen
seems un-aged when uncaged; his tomb his face
but his eyes look deep into the field of the place
where we lost each other to each other,

Chicago in May.

Lie mourning; it’s nothing two hours in
the States can’t sooth when you’re a loss who’s far
from happy and ain’t out but into the hair under his jeans.

Your once-urgent purging regretfully made paints
you impatient when really you’re just flame chastened
by periods of rain; this mood just makes you seem
truthful in a crowd, dutifully drawn, a tarot king
playing his Emperor card—a Magician who escapes

Chicago in May.

Improvidence imaging itself Xeroxes what
I thought it might; that you’re the one
eternity wants me to hold. Persepolis, the world,

tomorrow another red eye across the vault; emerald
unearthed from each thought skylining up seizes you
in the back room of my sight. Those windows undo
me, but unaccustomed to drought, stubble cracks
authority’s voice sputtering untruths said leaving

Chicago in May.