In hoc Signo Spes Mea (In this Sign is my Hope)

Here I stand
ancient on Queer Street
watchwondering.
Birds float by,
puncturing oblivion
for a nanosecond.
My hairy stems
and purple flowers
recur and spread after removal.
Malignancy.
Standing on a corroded edge,
hoping for a life-saving sign,
a quatrain stirring
rhymes in available space
in my mind.
The tracery on a butterfly’s wing
showers beauty,
quiddity rather than perfection.

Poetry is the recollection
of your body. Noontime.
Shards of un-loving
have crystallized
my weary atom hood.
Ascendancy of desire,
blue noon.