the lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne…

He walks in and out of my sleep wearing his different faces as a lean wind courts the streetlights

and sickly moons press against my window. Only his eyes will not warm from scene to scene, be it love

or the death of love he speaks of – Angelo’s cold hand still peers from under Claudio’s gentle sleeve.

Night spreads into itself like a church and he crosses my sleep without stopping as if called elsewhere

while in some cool gardened house a light halo of laughter grows around the room where he’s sitting.

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