Narcissus Without a Mirror


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.


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.