i.
A ribbon of time between us, cheating
us like a river swollen in spring but
thin in winter, I have not closed my eyes
since losing sight of
you, finding myself wanting to undo
the injustices society has
done to us, pulling down those pants silence
chanted, wailing as
its pathos traveled that jail-yard path our
thoughts, like our hands, used to; cruising cinder
block garden walls for wet guardians, hard,
dying to get off,
moist groins in full bloom, throbbing blossoms of
situational sexuality,
coming to terms with their bleak prison of
need’s conformity.
ii.
A reflection of a soul pooling its
silver, wishes for freedom from tears, to
be pulled up from between twin pains blinding
a mirror, to peer
into a rushing abyss and find love
itself there, blushing what I myself have:
a pox of lips burning thick with symptoms
no one else has had,
except, perhaps, Narcissus or even
his distant cousin Icarus, two men
too mythic to help themselves up, crashing
from such ambitious
passion as we did, falling hard, far from
what is, what could be, into what dread truth
exists: a chasm whose dark waters only
grim Death goes down on.