THERE ARE NEON VACANCIES
There are neon vacancies in our squalid eyes
and letters missing from our garish names
that eloped like snakes in the night
with a bridal catalog of juvenile trains.
For once in our left-handed lives
let’s concentrate on the salted cities
of the nightshift snails in the wounded factories
that scald the bolts on the cannibal cornucopias.
Let’s chalk our bodies to a sidewalk somewhere
and pretend we’re Renaissance artists
trying to put our pillars in perspective.
Let’s stop flogging the moonlight with razorwire
for rhetorical misdemeanors of mud
and see what the drowned man wouldn’t let go of
when they fished him out of the mirror:
O my love, you are nightwater and torn mushrooms,
and there are chandeliers of ruined cherries
that stain the light that sleeps in the seed
on the shores of your abandoned kisses, and your intrepid flesh
is urgent with the chlorine lanterns of the fireflies
you saved from the urns of your secret laments,
and in a fury of tangled starfish
that array their constellations
on the bottom of shipwrecked seabeds,
we have bestowed upon one another again and again
like thieves on the nightwatch among our captors
the passionate wealth of the long, delinquent voyages
that dreamed among the islands of never making it home.