Ex-Jesus freak turned gay
stud, you still quoted from Job when,
roughed up and rolled, you begged
for quick healing; not that you
believed a word you prayed, nor
did I, both apostates, both teenaged
outcasts, and I was hardly surprised
when one night, bruises faded,
you fled Texas without a note.
Driving through Wisconsin, three a.m.,
you stopped to photograph a town,
you wrote, was calm and white
as a child’s Bethlehem.
You mailed the print to me,
but afterwards answered
my letters with postcards:
Fire Island, Saks Fifth Avenue.
New York is fun. Doing well.
The streetlamps’ brilliant orbs
and the snowy homes,
the bridge and roads
glow, reflected in a river.
Lights trail on deepest violet, leading me
to you, camera at your eye,
in the viewfinder centering your town
between water and a sky
of no stars, only velvety mauve.