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Come To Me In Rags Of Blue Fire

Come to me in rags of blue fire, you, muse, you,
the gardenia face on the other side of the black gate
whose ancient spears are tipped with the taste
of wounded moons and iron roses; do not be swayed
by the blossoms on the cherry bridge,
or why the shadows of the brick children
on the walls of atomic decisions
haven’t been signed by the artists; give up
your fixation for amateur comet-watching in the rain
and come to me, touch me, hold me, consume me
in the flames of your igneous dispositions,
pierce me with stars, tear me on the thorns of your light,
as you have loved me in revery, distress, and tears,
as you have loved me in horror and humiliation
and then yourself lain down with me
in the mass graves of the student guitars
that were raped and murdered in the limelights
of the show-bizz army trucks,
antidotes weeping all night from the crescent of your kinder fang
to keep my heart alive like a toad in winter,
bring me now the night fire of your tigers
and the fragrance of wild sapphires blooming on the wind
when you return like an atmosphere to find me
as only you know how to find me
listening to my scars eat through the silence of dry creekbeds
revising the flash floods of their nervous breakdowns
with the short hands and amputated fingers of cactus alphabets.
Shall I call you dark names, and season my calling
with black swans and histrionic willows;
shall I summon you by silvering the Russian olive,
or bleeding the cherry to paint a man without lips,
or will you make me labour for nothing
in the sweatshops of the underpaid cocoons
when my tongue’s already as thick as a shoulder-pad?
Come, just come, come with wings, come with fireflies
and trust I’ve always preferred you to suicide,
come with bells and starfish calendars, come with candles and cedar
and tears in the mirror that don’t belong to anyone
and remember what I’ve died for when you asked,
come with fish and peacocks and orchids,
with squandered lakes bruised by the moon,
with black roses shedding their crows like witches,
come to me like an emerald that needs healing,
come with fingertips, breasts, eyes, a windfall of soggy peaches,
and believe in the poor goat whose piety’s a broken horn,
lift him up like rain above the sphinx in a desert ripe with diamonds,
and let him know, softly remind him, caress and confine him
like a cemetery covered in a keyboard of snow
until he confesses there’s an asylum in the heart of chaos
that sings to itself like an emergency constellation,
more enthralling than all the rest, a black waterstar
you are compelled to turn the lights off everywhere to be.

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