Remember the autumn-worn leaves of Terre Haute
Rustling against our spirits on that afternoon of spent days,
Long ago, while winter rains tap-danced their soul-song
Upon our innocence?
You burned brilliant; indigo and sapphire eyes sparkling,
Tainting sin-worn souls stretched taut along the avenues.
We shredded dusk between our lips, folded stars like sugar
Into bitter coffee.
Later, the third topless dancer mistook you for a man.
Laughing, you stuffed five bills down a nervous g-string,
Noting with masculine pleasure her crimson,
Arriving too early, a death-gray sun crept upon the sill,
Stealing over lost limbs with chilling ghost-fingers.
Hidden beneath dream-shrouds, I learned of your secret,
Persepolis knew no grandeur as textured as your tapestry,
No music as melodious as your sing-song lips,
No mind as erudite, charging me: belong for no one’s sake
But your own.
Errant snow flurries threatened, yet never frosted
Mid-west Americana’s doorstep, drifting west instead,
Obscuring safe passage to all points left of compass —
A place called home.
Late winter rains softly whispered your silent arrival.
Conquered lover, you sat opposite the squalid table,
Cigarette gripped tensely upon your lap, while we ate
Breakfast at Denny’s,
My soul wrapped your smallest, most indistinguishable finger,
As you had wrapped yourself around me, nights before,
While the despondent waitress questioned our desire
For more cream.