A Bronze God, or a Letter on Demand

I like to think of your silence as the love letters you will not write me,

as two sax solos from two ages across a stage, learning the languages

of kissing with your eyes closed. I like to think of you as a god

to whom I no longer pray, as a god I aspire to. I like the opening of your joined palms,

which is like an urn where my ashes find a home. The music of your lashes;

the silent way your body wears out mine.

Mostly, I like to think of you at night when a black screen of shining dust shines

from your mines to the edge of my skin, where you are a lamp of flutters.

I remember the spectral lashes–marigold, tamarind, secret thing between your thighs,

of closed kissing eyes. At night, the possibility of you is a heavy

sculpture of heavy bronze at the side of my bed,

a god. And I pray you into life. Into flesh.