My love, the moderns are not here
To bleat and shiver and ask why,
Without the breast flesh of a pigeon,
Like a cyst in the organs.
Your blade cut me once.
My cheek a fire on a distant island.
As a sacrament, a doorway, a mother’s love,
I wait in obscurity for my own insipidness to leave me.
An aroma of suffocation covers the ground.
No poet? No south coast, no blood orange, no cinnamon.
Only a dull man following the flower pots up the stairs
Without the scent of death on his street shoes.