The Practice of Several Stigmatics

I think of that kinky over
the top knee boot and those
tortuous streets, enigmatic

as the earthy ochre of Siena
blends blood with the blessed
Virgins simple black and white

decadence as decisive as the time
cords tied my wrists and you
covered my eyes leaving

invisible preoccupations
reproducing themselves
the way hands, feet or brows

express ecstatic suffering
disguised as some sort of razor
sharp thrill.It hasn't always

been this way. If I could see
you again, I'd leave
bruises pulped into stone

softened by the first
time we met, we thought
we were in Rome.


Summer's Fruit

There's fog between my lashes,
my eyes a distant yawn
like a plastic petalled wreath
fermenting at my feet.

Like summer's rotting fruit
split open, soft and weak
in the hotel bed
unsteady waves of peristalsis

while the sun holds tight
its sphincter, a flinch
of sucked in bleach,
a silhouette of frantic limbs
chewed up and out of reach.