there is always the boy drunk on basement wine
in straw bottles. a body like schweinshaxe
luminous with beer,
a body unable to learn how to walk in the rain of his life.
there is a night which is a holed tin roof. you will see him
praying behind the stained glass. he offers you his hands.
his hands are stray cats, his feet
drag in a Gulag camp. you play opera so he may walk
in an abandoned theater. you bring him
to a gas crater in Turkmenistan that has been burning for four decades:
he says he does not remember the fire, only the ash.
you leave him love letters in textile factories and castle ruins.
he may become an echo
that arrives in a dream, but remember how
the canvas of the dream burns in the morning,
how the hands of silence can be as wide as a storm.