He Who Loves Me, Loves the World.

He Who Loves Me, Loves the World

His eyes beat like stars.  The night shines brilliantly

Through my window.  A beetle scuttles across the kitchen

Floor.  I am rising, falling with the night, thinking of

Deeper things.  He speaks to me in whispered promises,

Stroking my thighs lovingly.  He who loves me, loves

The world, loves all the promises of the night, and the stars

Are like bitter eyes that lower to the city streets.

A car backfires.  Sometimes, a cat walks across the sidewalk,

Searching for its dinner, maybe a mouse, or sometimes a bowl of

Tuna fish is left on front porches by old widows who lost their

Husbands to war.

But all the while, he is there, a ghost in the night, his words

Curving more than beauty, a mixture of skin and broken bibles,

Thoughts like stones on wooden tables.

He who loves me, loves the world, and the world with its crazy

Dreams, the craziness wrapped inside you like a vegetable burrito,

The craziness wrapped in tin foil.  A radio can be heard somewhere

On the street, in all the sheets and folded bodies in all the houses

Along the street, as the people in those houses make love, do laundry,

Do nothing.

And all the while, the world is there, creeping slowly outside your window,

And there is no tiredness there.