Elegy

Elegy

I dreamed about you,

you were just like you were,

no slip-ups in your voice,

motionless shadows for arms,

and statuesque genitals.

You copied yourself, you were nothing

but the foam of your own life.

I felt you were deified verse

in my dream. My sadness did not fit

the bottom of my pain, and so I went

to stain the night in purple.

The noise your legs made

could have awakened a pond,

the hours that never went beyond

bloodletting, the silence of many windows.

Tenderness wept from one

of your nipples to the other.

Last night I dreamed about you

and I couldn’t tell you my secret

—because love is a magnificent apple tree

with copper fruits wrapped in skin

made from the intelligence of leaves

that recall the future, and roots

like arms mired in the snows of sainthood—

even my fingers couldn’t find you

in your perfection. My very presence

would be violent, so violent 

I'd fill you with wonder.