From a reluctant prophet’s lips
                    to Jonas—my bronze Adonis
                              cast in the shape of a poem—
                              for his tutelage in the new
                              poetics of timeless beauty,
                                        these following lines are inscribed
                                        with much privilege and duty.

Breath without which I cannot live,

          Is there any other way to
                    put it than this? That my mouth was
                    mistaken when I said I had
                    no more love to give, that I sought
                    myself when I hid, and that your
                    hand was worth opening my fist.
                    What you wanted and for which we
                    both silently wished, only now
                    can I welcome its gift. ¶ Is there
                    any pain to pout more sombre
                    than this, softer than its hi(n)t? That

          my lips unseal themselves too late
                    to greet yours with a kiss, like dew
                    awaiting dawn, tongue anointing
                    itself with unwashed wanting, an
                    unsung song, thoughts waking only
                    to find engulfing darkness, an
                    eclipse that whispers with the fleet
                    swiftness of character needed
                    for annihilation that seems
                    less an assassination than
                    a fulfillment. A prophecy

          surpassing fate and time in its
                    defiance of limits, and since
                    unlike its cousin passion, love
                    has no expiry, I write now
                    to confess mine for you, which with
                    such folly I kept unsaid. ¶ Is
                    there anything I would not do
                    to succor or comfort you? Would
                    you have waited if you knew that
                    eventually I would come
                    through? As the kiln turns earth and tears

          to stone, in the crucible berths
                    of this world’s cruelest furnace
                    depth surfaces and crying, yearns
                    to be held, to be understood,
                    to be heard, and my secrets once
                    broken, burn me in effigy,
                    smouldering burdensome bones our
                    souls might have shouldered better if
                    only together we could have
                    seen what these pieces portended,
                    an embrace greater than friendship.

And so, with all my love always,
          I send out into the æther
                    these truant truths neither your heart
                    nor my silence that beat it can
                    soothe, wanting you more than words prove.