To S.G.S.

the moon is on my left
then on my right
then on my left again
dieu et mon droit

I ratchet up my spine
and think about your verse
austere  beautiful  desperate

each piece's sinewy limbs
the contradiction between
     a snap of an empty fridge
     a snap of a busy kitchen

i like to write poems for you
they don't start out like love poems
but it's all they can ever be
i want to remind you  you are

but you write near selfless poems
let out collective aches
remember the present correctly
they remind me i am

i don't understand much
and you never really explain
at most  i can bask in your awe
i can glimpse and glean

you use the same alephbet
but your ego's unframed
you would never blame on the drugs
confusing oblique and opaque

if you were a cop  i'd ask to see
your calibration certificate
if you were a cop  i'd ask whether you are aware
of the uncertainty of your device

i'd let you cross examine me for the full hour
trace a finger over my imperfections
the twisted swastikas inscribed
in the grout of the mind

i have written poetry for
twenty three years
for about three months

when i don't gently
edit your lines or pore
over your inexplicably
easy hand

               i dream
your sumatran blood python
in the bathtub  blood
on the church stairs  a shape
waiting for me in bed  in the dark