The neon burn
Of loveless, hedonistic, capitalistic
Winter nights,
Of eyes hungry
For love or food or sex.
Many-fingered men
Grasping faces in
The dark, feeling skin.
And hands, wiry,
On my hip, wanting
For more than what
I have, illuminating
My naked body, holy
As it was, on nights
Such as these.

Asking for saintliness,
Then, seeing my eyes, tired of fool’s
Games, washing my face, you leave
Me to my peace of mind, for
I do not get on the cross
For you. I have been tired for some time.

And taking drags from
The cigarettes left perched
On the night table where they
Were left, a memento.
Hating to leave without memory
Or conscience
Or something willful
and Good,
for you are not a whore
but your hands have held
too many to compel my
Memory to them.

You fear the neon burn
Of the streets in wake
Of the florescence of the light bulbs,
that put lovers, such as us,
to bed in cheap motel rooms.
The stillness of the city streets
Has your head spinning
In thoughts of hunger and hatred.

You feel nothing miraculous
Has happened, and the sounds
That willed us to the bed
Have finally been to rest.

Sleep should mean more than
The neon burn of my fingers
Touching you back
In the darkness because you know
I sleep alone, and to mean
That you were there to stay,
To exist between the lines of pleasure
And pity, for purpose of need or
Hopes and ambitions,
And that I could have them
For you, was to have for more than
Winter nights of a carnal, animalistic
Fever dream in which you hold me,
If only for a moment.
In which we hope for
The neon burn to wear down,
So that we can finally rest.