Introibo ad altare Dei.

Then there was the winter it seemed we said goodbye to the sun.
Noches frías. Manos heladas. Hands immovable, guitar
impossible to play, tongues frozen behind the teeth.  
On such a night, pinned between a distress and craving to please, 
this fantasy came to be between the buildings and the balconies. 

The moons float in alley water  
like eggs embosomed by tin cups,
The moons coast in alley water
like eggs embosomed by jeweled, tiny tin cups.
Consume this simple meal given now to us. 

To know uncomplicated you is smoked bourbon steak hearts toasted 
with black tar tobacco chicken wings together,
and the nuzzling of all of you is all of you and I— but 
for the fear to see her face reflected in yours.
My ruin. 

She follows in every face I choose to love. 

She follows.  As the bull’s bloody corpse who fought gallantly 
in the arena, his manhood, ears, and tail removed for memorabilia. 
Her three gorgeous emerald eyes within triple eyes of green, 
and wild claws clenched to tear at my Earth,
the ones to pin pesetas and saetas on the Virgin
in the churches of the gypsy quarter—
I know there’s forgiveness for her. 

I know the taste of bluegrass moss on the ochre morning’s stone, 
and the salt caramel fog on my tongue acrid from the bright flooded sea.

Starlight rises rudely to end our breakfasting on the midnight, crabs we shelled
beachside, opened, cracked, and crucified to a toasted, gutted rapture.
I thank all that is all and is for the glancing softness of your moonlit walking beach,
your taste whether foul, for once I don’t care. All I want is you.  
Draw the curtains so tightly, light a candle to spit in the eyes of the sun. 
Set out cups to catch the moonlets, take raw shots of memory for breakfast.