With someone watching you,
the moths, the ghosts, the holy
onyx night, you cannot be
yourself. Outside your body
there are no eyes but pieces
of shadow that glue you to
the light, pin the tail, prick
the bird, stone the heart.
Remind me what a real thing is.
There at the end of the hallway
a photo of myself; not beauty,
not art but history frozen to
the woolly darkness. He asked
through a bullhorn "Could you be
my lover?" Still the golden flame,
the dreadful silence evaporated.