Sun Made of Ghosts

I had hoped
By the port's angular tapestry
That your voice
Would set me free
But yours is some
Sort of speech
From the wind
It's got skin
Tight surrounding it
Bone's deplorable excess grounding it
And it would
See that aesthetic triumph get skinned

You say you see the world through god
Then what do I look like
What do I feel like
Can't you see your voice employs the hell
It seeks to destroy

Still I know
What your voice does to me
Though I wouldn't call it freeing
There's more than one way
To be a friend

When you danced with me
I was sorry, light was calling
Me away from you to a prom
Made of palm branches tethered tonight
I'll be eating alone
And the sun's made of ghosts
With dead skin together, they're sewn
Upright by their spines

I had loved
By Roselle Park's elbowing triangle blocks
That our rainy loitering
Would set us both free
But yours is some sort of freedom
Different from mine
It seeks to transcend
To bewilder and to mend
That form, and what I take for us
That singular plaster cast
That I thought was doing just fine

Beatin' me to death with a bird metaphor
Like a bat to the neck
Lead and swift and upset
You think you see me just fine
And that I see you
But do we see each other at all

Still I know what I do when I look at you
And it's not something that we often do
I lock my sense of humanity
Back into linear time

And when you danced with me
I was clumsy, light was calling
Me away to an antipathy
For the den of linear lockjaw
And fracas belabored atone
For the toiling unknown
Beneath a false skin of woe
That angels have veiled us within
And called it sin

Put your head down on my shoulder
I've no conscience, I've no splendor
I'm arranging material in cycles
I can feel it, not unlike you
Leave hovering stables alone
Leave all the name calling to bone
I've finished my wrawling

And I know what your poetry did to me
I don't think that you can love both Jesus and me
But I don't know too much
And there's more than one way to be a friend