His shadow in the frescos
Is the first admitted
Into a picture. Before this,

Dr. Redacted will tell me not to tell you
this, like this,
in a poem: how it’s all right, love, that we don’t love
living.

The morning flew by.
Not that it matters, it’s nothing
like flying, or finding a dime behind a cushion,

Steam in the pipes.
Birdsong muted.
A prowl of cat.

The sovereigns of the world are old,
and die without heirs.
Their sons die young behind guarded doors.

"Isn't it time I slipped my leash?"
         she thought.         For him, what was it?
A quickening. A corner he hadn't turned.

What do you make of that odd one by the door,
his silk top hat and greatcoat folded
neatly beside his chair, a sketchbook flapped

He labored above the impassable coast
where gulls hovered to their nests on rock,
shy youth worrying his dream-drenched songs.

Men kissing, men kissing men in a movie,
women kissing, kissing women in the next,
then men kissing women, then women, men,

The seascape shifts

Between the minutest interstices of time
Blue is blue.