Madam, I don't know if I'm writing or
committing a class "A" felony. It is my soul
that always misses the last train to my fingers.
You walk there in so much beauty, the moon
should give herself a rest. What you say
is not true. It makes everything else true.
No, not the mirror now. Anything but.
Call me Mickey's dog. These arthritic bones shall
not keep me from hobbling love struck to my last fuck.
Yes, those are my stones piled up by the side
of the road, gazing down onto the city
in tears. Temple bells annoy me. I don't want
to believe. I want to taste more river.
In the end you are wholly beautiful. Un-
fortunately the end comes too quickly.
Wherever the world erupts, something erupts
in my eyes: you... in the plural. Who knows
what worse thing may happen. A single glance
-- anyone's -- is a mystery and we
are no gumshoes or idiot savants -- either.
Vincent Spina is the author of Outer Borough (Pecan Grove Press 2009).