We speak in hushed tones of honor
integrity hidden on the walls.
Inscriptions embedded for others
to discover.

Now is not the time for talking;
my ears are full of illusion.
Your heart, exposed by your
confession needs a comfort

which I cannot give.
Our smiles are groans of longing,
longing held down now lost.
Riding on the trigger that cries

for release from the stagger of reason.
Don’t turn our back on ideas
that need the night to regenerate.
By the time they return

I will have sunk to the bottom
of the lake. My arms are full
of baskets for gathering
the feathers of wounded angels.

After we spoke, you said
that you slept for days,
while I deconstructed our
paper mache carousel and watched
our burning thrones throw ash
into the hungry mouth of heaven.
This is when lovers need
the secret code of their inspiration
written as skin-whisper lyrics.
There is no time for tears
when the beauty falls like
old buildings.

A warm chair and a hot cup
of coffee is enough to resist
the throng of despair.
The talkers, the lookers,

the looters applaud the creators
before releasing the lions,
but I am there with my baskets
and pocket manual for flight.