it is so hot it is a desert our shoes
        no longer burn
        our feet are naked in
        the temple of our poverty
        we kneel we are inflamed
        apotheosis of hands the milk
        of stars a divine gift we refuse

Aperture: I wander through white birch, a splash of blood on the wrist of your sweater. Which is also white and blue. Bruised. Or is it you that wanders, lover? I wrote, a month after my stay at the hospital: "He wanders through white birch."

    Why waste what dignity remains on song
    when like fugitives we kneel before the pulse

    of succulent engines in the vineyard of wing-
    beat of empty hands, desires, loose

    heat of plenty, unfulfilled, seeking still
    in afternoon caesura? Why conjure a circle

    Never the midnight vibrates until a wine glass
    breaks. The train twists
    off track. Unslaked, mistaken claims
    flash the cabin like a camera. The future maims

    opening febrile opening again apocryphal mirror

    we are inside no harm

    will come traipsing

    her golden hairs engagingly provocative inseminate

    the opening again penetrate the sacred space of her