From the last wane and shouts of my influence
I made my loss a shadow
but one of weight—
a newspaper park blanket that I could draw up to my chin
to hide me from the arching eyes of streetlights
and though true it keeps me warm it reads itself to me
incessant
I hear it far away but I know it has a force
Like an impossibly loud horn sounding at the very bottom of a well
And if only I could draw it up
it would surely say that Seraphim felt fit to fall to filthy streets and burn
and wait
and animate
pleading,
humming like a breast,
watching two or three bodies
catch against each other
and burn
engorged—
pleading,
that enough of it
might diffuse
back upwards
Two or three beds
not warm but
unthinkably bright, hot
and we, a fraternity of ghosts,
staring skywards apologizing
to incredible frightening unseen expanses,
wondering
what would it be like to love at all