Out of time, out of place we mistake our
     folding of the same hymn sheet of horrors
     for courage emboldening our souls to
     take on fate, that the sun may stay our course,
     enlightening us always to go forth
     with more warmth than charisma, charm our curse,

                    to trust our imaginations more than

our intuition, to realize our
     fantasies without judgment, to love our
     Selves without harsh recourse to defiance—
     I could feel a pattern underlying
     the chaos of your skirts, lines of Braille that
     taught me to turn these coincidences

                    into more pleasing synchronicities,

to graduate from not-at-all knowing
     to full-on reading omens, opening
     without closing them the misty doors of
     ancient æthyrs, experiencing with
     fullest force of impatience how slowly
     it burns, the magic of a new life on

                    our own terms—to consume a god is no

bother for you, a little ritual
     whose fulfillment is not a problem to
     work through, some ambrosial servitude no
     trouble for you, devourer who eats truth
     without weighing it against hearts broken
     on imbalanced desire, painting your tomb

                    with panting strokes rubbing love off your mouth,

this is one moment of (h)ours gates close their
     openings for, anachronic moments
     no one but the immortals live to tell,
     morsels of former misfortunes acting
     as portals, cracked and creaking doors of wounds
     sucking into this bedroom a man whose

                    memory’s splintered fragments we unglue.