Ready for the Razor
“Suffering is one very long moment.
We cannot divide it by seasons…”
Oscar Wilde: De Profundis
Have you seen Douglas walk
with giants wearing green carnations,
shimmering within liquid space
where mockingbirds dare not sing,
haunted by the brave with a razor
in the middle of the pageant of the stars?
Lips never stop complaining, intolerant
they see our shadows marching hand in hand
and forget the dew at first light. From dusk to a leaning
dawn, we rest between each other’s thighs,
season to season.
What is the verb I’m missing;
down on my knees, chained, forced labor?
Iron has never been that comfortable,
or regret that significant.