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jupiter's going away.
& with still, steeple hands
i brush aside the sky.

there are no new futures
for me to see there.

live dye-cast into fuchsine
with the superlative down fingers
that you keep around your throat.

death is only as romantic as you make it
& your daily suicides of the heart
are a given;

splendid and mossed in timeless frenzy,
i shift my planetary movemnts
to avert your eyes.
the ones as black as my bird.

the unstoppable fantasy
of that phonecall
that you can't seem to make,
blisses on my tongue
all the inside, russian responses,
short and full of volumes,
that i release into your perfect
smaller ear.

believe in me when you're dreaming,
& my purposeful laurels
willl crowd around your neck
like the necklace that you never where.

i am still the moon
hung over your head
for the instant that you were capable
of a perfect love unwound
& bound for nothing
but endless longing
from afar...