BEHIND THE ACCIDENTAL MASK, THOSE EYES

BEHIND THE ACCIDENTAL MASK, THOSE EYES,

Gray as gunsights, as I shave, watch me, fond,

Above the antiseptic, frosted guise

Of dawn and peer into the upright pond

That begs me linger through the lotion burn

Of doom, and sudden, cut my throat to wine

The resurrection rites that might return

The echo to these tiles.  One needs no line

To draw cross the flesh, just care about

One love, that chills the morning’s single sun,

As requited, gentle-joined, devout. . .

The virgin yellow mask and I . . . blend one.