Petrified roses with babies’

Breath brush the oily

Air of the disastrous kitchenette

whose 40s refridge still takes

Defrosting which we do

three times a year. 

artifacts of past friendships

line the wall, some poorly hung, some, by chance

remain exquisite where the walls are cracking.

The worse objects are parodies of false associations

ossified and unregrettably thrown in the mantel.

we slept in the ash for 25 years

comfortable bivoiac we holed up here during the

catostrophic days and nights, years

(there is a whole trunk of lost symphonies here in one sharp

note) When we were sure the horrid world

news would be taken by personal health news

The worse scenario never came to be for us

the way if was for others

but we lived it obliquely as awkward

and powerless as we could and we weren’t cowards

We wanted to be fancy men

Urban homos who lived as if we

where in an elegant silver geletin film

not drinking martinis

but saving an ideal

even on the day we became a low

budget documentary.

We realize it now when we look in the mirror

The lines in our faces bacme our make up

On the depression blue glass table

that hoves below the knees

lie brass candlesticks of various

eras and designs

Pewter goblets, a Persian clausonet sarcophagus

(Saeed’s aunt gave it to me after his death)

the tarot decks

Grand jeu de societe et prestique secrete de M. Lenormand

and the elemental tarot

which Jack and I excavated from the cellar

also a wafer thin copper plate with a bluish gold crest

two leather bound copies of Hawthorne

six minature silver gblets

a floral oagami with a blood velvet platform

a jagged black rock with shale  edges

a harlequin mask

and 47 candlesticks of every metal and size.

Jack ornaments all of them on tiers on the wall with

campy artifacts too burlesque and numerous

to number