Written with thorns pulled from the dark
                    side of passion, an epistle
               and a treatise concerning things
          incomprehensible, in two
     parts entitled, On Fasting by

     Dining on Denied Desire and
          Of Binding by Lightning—how those
               eyes, when falling, flash semaphore
                    tears my time’s veil finds inviting,
                         this coffin-lid of silence ill-

equipped to bury again what’s
                    uncovered, when you liken my
               suicide pose to Superman’s
          Fortress of Solitude, lifting
     from me its mask, knowing a myth

     only invents what stage costume
          vulnerable souls wish would clothe
               what remains unsaid, behind their
                    trembling lips—that for all of my
                         funeral’s bad medicine show,

knowing all I do now of how
                    to make a fickle spark throw, to
               its most unapologetic
          conflagration, pent-up passion,
     and sell what went up in flames as

     a phoenix heart of bronze cast not
          from courage into rebirth, but
               ashes repackaged as death’s bold
                    alternative, it’s this having
                         to be encouraged by your song’s

wordless power that makes my tears
                    flow, glowing as these eye of mine
               do now, pondering how, without
          performance, you command so much
     prowess, working the wonder of

     my humbling, drawing close without
          grumbling or protest, this mountain’s
               most stubborn goat into your fold,
                    opening my heart as you close
                         my head’s blindness, seeing inside

merely by withholding your glance,
                    taking my breath as you hold both
               my hands, freeing me of what chains
          my existence, explaining love’s
     mystery simply, that what’s kept

     secret best accounts for its truth’s
          treasure trove, and that, like health, by
               not measuring its amount is
                    how we keep its wealth intact, one
                         tongue inhabiting two deep throats.