I am watching the trees catch Darkness,
the cupped hands, the branches, all shaking;
feminity is caught tight in the branches,
the men are earth and sea and sky.
Night stumbles into the foreground; she is drunk,
she watches her enthronement:
the earth laid thin, dyed with falling
mirth, coughing angels.
This is the hour to say
Love is a myth
told in rosaries to the dead:
you were all in shadow, crossing between
the pavement and the fields,
birds winging the distance and
my self-actualization kept tight and raw.
you are breathing into cupped hands, lighting me on fire.
there is nothing ruined here, nothing forgotten;
we are in the small glowing hours, between day
fantasy and reality; and I come undone,
the spinning tampered down to one horizon,
to the endless things that keep us sad
and apart: we are the gothic people,
exoticized and eroticized