I bound to my temples a box of flesh
filled with holy letters & captured poems --
& I am probably wrong.

With thongs of time
bind to your body
the heart of a man.

I'm heading for another border,
my scrapbooks stuffed with murder
& a crazy rumour of glory
whispering through the wires of my spine.

Lucky Cain wandered for one crime
& received on his forehead a sign
which proved in every mirror
who was the slayer and who was the slain.
Blood still is vocal,
the ground is still a home,
but now the voice accuses so many names
I do not know which name is mine.

O you will be listening for music
while I turn on a spit of song;
you will increase your love
while I experiment with pain;
while others amputate their limbs
you will master a ballet-step
away from voluntary gangrene.
Believe nothing of me
except that I felt your beauty
more closely than my own.
I did not see any cities burn,
I heard no promises of endless night,
I felt your beauty
more closely than my own.
Promise me that I will return.