We choke on sky. May rain
strums over moon, recalling
a rosined scrape of bow against
inconsolable acoustics of big-
jacketed gangs, saprophytes, lounging
in front of the J train, in front
of sunsets wrung of tint.
Jose, baby, let's pray,
right here on this white-boned street:
for an apartment of our own.
I know, baby, I don't believe in God.
Please, God, give us walls.
And a job, and a part in a play
for you, baby, he says.
Sweetheart, the system found
us an apartment two weeks later,
and on another sulfuric day we
moved from that crack-perfumed
shelter. You bought me purple roses
and gave me your whole SSI check
to buy pretty clothes for auditions
and interviews you knew I'd get.
I'm forever gnawing my lips,
not in dread, but amazement at
my ever-engorged love for you.
For once in my hungry, nomadic
life, I've found unconditional you.
When I realize your disease is
spilling scent and voices through
your head, you beg me not to leave you.
And I don't. I love you.
I hand myself over to you
as if bestowing the sunrise.
I'm under your spell and
your terribly alert eyes.
One way to discover faith
is to lose it completely.