orphaned by the tide
in some place of sun/ the light spills dancing on your work/ the quick day is just an accent of bones and dust/ even the word work is more drainage than sweat but sweat, too/ i need room to think/ i need equivalent deserts of the sky in pain/ ripped from throats just like your supple neck whose veins i paint in fingers confiscating time, and the way it storms through the painting rooms stained like ruined archeology in crevices, you, prince, transient lover with your strange questions/ given as the crow sky in the witching hour, persistence, i read books by flashlight under the sheets of this mattress on the floor/ rolling joints/ you cried when i bit your tongue/ i told you i was dangerous/ and am entertained by your little tantrums lunatic and errant/ tell me, what is it you know of life, little boy with your blood-dark thousand fists/ your night slinks at your own unwhoring/ swallowed like the sea is just another dark page orphaned by the tide/