A little guts, self drama and it’s done.
I understand you, two six seven one,
leaving the white fat town behind like that
safe in the moat, at every gate two cops
with spears insisting lovers on the drawbridge
chat within the rules. All bridges lead
to paths that lead to churches. The sea
and ship are so remote, to notice them
you violate the charm. Towers sparkle,
banners flutter clean. But in your last few dreams
rats nibbled at your arms. The king proclaimed
no peeking at the royal pornography bank.
The upper picture, granted not well painted,
hurt them. You, vertical spread eagle,
no perspective with your floggers
who admitted you were nice. You said
when men are dead, stars can talk to rivers,
glad clouds need never part. They said
what art. I say rivers run from towns
and torture out of paintings, why not man?
I’m plenty less than you. Call me forty-four.
Old enough to know what happened at the door.
They kept your things, said get out, die in weather.
Dogs will eat you where the only love’s exposure
and there’s dead rain between mother and your mouth.
We like it here. The drawbridge thundered down.
A cop said so long, friend—he wasn’t one—
and you died quietly away behind a smile
you knew they’d find among your birds
and dogs, one dog crosseyed, ineffectual,
old, the other ferocious, black,
his teeth, the peacock and your hand
guarding your groin from the rook.