I spontaneously entrusted care
of my heart’s spark to the damp, trembling hand
of a self-doubting man, convinced of his
                    conviction when he said,

                    ‘My hands might be cold, but my heart is warm.’

Inside my head, kind thoughts mixed with my rage
rivaling the potency of a storm,
migraine blindness inviting a force more
                    moving and forgiving,

                    ‘Do not be troubled, for my heart is warm.’

Lifting fistfuls of trouble with comfort,
in silence he lined gutters with fired arms
better designed for lifting spirits than
                    performing work meant for

                    hardened souls, the troubled ones worn raw from

blows given on the job by overlords
lording over them all with militant
tyranny before taking off, after
                    flowering a flood’s path

                    with blood he had sweat while swallowing mine.

Weak in confidence, but leaking onto
my life’s bleakness crimson kisses my white
lightning drowned in, my little flame grew in
                    his dark palm, light praying,

                    ‘O, keep within him your heat when I weep.’

Puddles of art wept like wax, rushing past
his exhaustion like orchid petals thrown
without caution into winter wind, those
                    passionate flashes men

                    give the name Inspiration, whitening

then as now my raucous arteries when
I walk, I should have known enough and not
have loved him so much, trusting as I did
                    his kisses which burned like

                    incense, the dizzying musk of his lips

mutinying his soul’s vessel, ‘Foolish
Vehicle,’ as he called his body, flesh
adrift without a course, drowning itself
                    in beauty, telling me,

                    ‘Oh, yours is more proof of God than I need.’