Ceremonial Psalm

Blessed art the wild boys

who cross reveries, all sweet

milk, sweet tongues.

Leave them, small as pins,

under a sky that folds

like an eyelid.

A kiss quicks a valley

of thirst, and Lord, never

let them thirst.

Must I saint

myself at the altar

of your thighs, house

your sweat, cross

myself three times before

bells chime for more

salt. Wound me instead.

With no music left,

play metal and dust

along my false ribs.

Measure my years in plums

and water, stones

and fire. In grief.

River my grief.

Blessed art the drowned

boys, shot

boys, boys with shoulders

wide as wandering

albatross. In fable,

hours drear on

with no sound.

Wound me into a thousand

clouded rooms occupied

with boys I could love.

If not for restraint.

If not for whims.

Each boy creases

his room, mercies

a corner in waiting.

Each lover I name

Lord. Each Lord a new

ceremonial of wings.

Brute Litany

If gourded, if brooded,

my Brute, grant me

grace: Carousel

of knives. Gossamered

peach undressed

to pith. A glint

of skin: Velvet

your horns against

my thigh. An antlered

opus: Moon water

against reeds.

How blue. Caged

where lake frosts

the throat. Can’t you

hear the rigging,

my ichored o

my murmurous one?

Like animals, choked on fruit.