It was a cathedral// then//

it was a ruin

all the angels & their cracked wings//

you ever seen girl lose

columns of her spine?

I'm here,

dust-knuckled, scraped, slow-bleeding/

curled like a bird in final rest/ bleeding

the kind of red-black that means

eventually it'll stop.

Can't remember

when the passion used to call itself crimson

except under a shade of lace

& afternoon yellowing.

But in the morning the clock strikes

& the day ribbon-grommets herself into

the picture

& we must rise,

her & I,

always ever her & I.

Lonely cathedral,

lost your righteous hips

still warring with

ghosts of an old devil's teeth:

that's as ugly as it ever gets.

& the dust settles,

& the dust settles,

your knuckles are so pink.