licking a deadman’s eyelids

the crescents of your hand
rubbing me into black & bone

(all i am & worse)

(all i am in words)
(all i am in verse)
(all i am inverse)

the violet curtains
in our hotel room, hanging— 

(their stillness & splendor)

the drink with which
you find your voice 

(& too much of our talk is of too little,)

the blueness of the evening light
filtering through the windows of others,

& when i call— 

never once do you look back
or see