I carry the moonlight you gave me
in a flask near my heart. You said,
"Use it well, for it opens doors,"
even though that wasn’t what you said —
you said, "This skin is scenery,"
but I could not find the maya
in your eyes. . .
         There are so many
lines sketched in my work books —
what was I building (?) — cathedrals, palaces,
gardens in my mind — I said,
"I follow the crooked path, for
straightness can never reach its ends. . ."
I'm not sure I followed that.
I met you once on a riverboat.
It was spring and all was madness.
I watched the fog shiver like wraiths
in the moonlight.
         When you gave it to me,
when you gave yourself to me,
I saw, for the first time
so many keyholes and locks
on my chest, on my thighs,
   on my mind —
I gave myself to you:
I could not find the maya
in your eyes.