[untitled]

This poisoned morning: dark gray shades that shift
one to the other, and the doorway’s flesh
begins to soften with the acid wash
of sunlights our unfocused eyes can’t bear;

we run down blackened streets, we try to flee
serrated knives of light, the glaring dawn,
turn sharpened corners, freeze to watch the change
in space, rectangles folding back from night –

but if I thought your darkened eyes would try
to link with mine, I’d fight this twilight edge,
I’d chant the sun awake, I’d fight a war
to bring your dazzling, golden shadow home.

Like desperate brides who stalk the streets at night,
we’re searching, searching, clutching dead bouquets.

[Los Angeles, 2/13-16/91]