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Watching the Fire Die

In that dark place
where men and angels
pray,
 
I watch
the flames of my contempt
...and the fire that licks
the splinter
 
...the evil
and the envy
in the day
 
wear on me;
their permutations, gray
to sickness and to sleep
that coats the walls
with dust.
 
And I love your face, your art,
which is both passionate and deep
but I fail in that same way
that passion plays a game with others
in a pride
that fails desire
 
and the love I feel goes cold
...to wet and wearied clay.
This is the subject of our longing!
These sisters!, these brothers!,
for whom the likes of Jesus died
...a wet world for the rust!
 
And I feel that you could not love me,
my old bones beneath the covers,
in the slow rot and decay
which precisely leads to Winter
 
where  loveliness
is cast into the fire!

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