A Question Mark

There is a hinge

of bone

where your chin joins

your cheek.

I like to stroke it

in the flicker

of a local movie;



I like to take

your laborer;s hand

when you are

cautiously-

(O proof of love!)-

driving my car.



You bring me gifts

of food;

I write you

poems of blood.



Your scars are vertical;

mine are horizontal.



You lost your spleen;

I loosed a daughter

on the world.



Your hinge of bone

tells jokes;

while mine chants

poems.



An unlikely pair,

though which pair

is ever likely?



When I cannot

look at your face,

I look

at your cock-

a question mark

asking the sky



how can

heaven

be fucked?