as one of my desperate prayers.
I am waiting to be unfolded
like a guest towel in your hands.
Desire stole away on the four a.m.
train, crazed fool. Pressing the bullhorn
more than necessary, she shatters
the neighbors' dreams into the icy shards
of wine glasses. Through the slatted blinds,
a stranger in a tuxedo, cane in hand,
highsteps 15th Street. He sings:
All the churches will burn.
Please believe me about this,
I haven't the strength to lie.
Here in my realm
of membranous floors,
I take the place of chairs,
my feet the only broom.
Bullhorns keep keening
for your return. Go ahead,
Love, you need to witness
the capped conductor's rage
when he kicks the interloper
in the ribs. You need to hear
the kssshh of the wedding dress
and veil striking gravel.
You could be a savior.
The rest of me waits here,
tipped against the wall.
Here's your desire, you might say,
All is well. I do. I do. I do.