Dialogue Between a Sodomite and a Fornicator

                    i. A River Bends

He has eyes like candlelight
                    blown-out minds finger through, paths
                    leading them on, those men who
                    thirst for lust’s diamond tooth
                    ending up bitten through laughs
                    he has to use on dim (k)nights
                    when he wants only to see
                    himself, when in every

                    suitor the pursuit ignites
                    images of something else,
                    in one of those moments, two
                    fires consumed by a shared truth
                    wept a single movement that
                    time itself had lapsed to sight,
                    that in my life would only
                    happen that one night the heat

                    of which proved that love was blind
                    to my touch, too white to have
                    been dreamt of by flesh, yet through
                    burning bush my tongue-kissed Jew
                    turned faith into barren hands
                    too long used to tie so tight
                    the wandering noose my sweet
                    lips laid on arid bodies.

                    ii. A River Flows Over

Laid between a Sodomite
                    and a Fornicator, love’s
                    a dialogue made for fools,
                    an obscene debate but few
                    other than the angels and
                    their maker have chanced, a f(l)ight
                    resembling a dance that we
                    still tremble from having been

                    thrown in, telling him that I
                    had, ‘lost my head inside of
                    your thighs,’
that, ‘when god wants to,
                    god makes us find down below
                    what new heaven god’s hand has
                    hidden,’
what behind his eyes
                    called in my dry soul to keep
                    as kindling, wetting all he

                    had been given, waxing bright
                    when he bathed in my darkness,
                    we went not too high, but drew
                    too deep from a well we knew
                    would tomorrow be useless
                    to extinguish our hell’s sky,
                    denying our Selves unclean
                    until mine bled what his leaked—

                                        until I spoke what smoke speaks.