Attempt to Join Sex and Death
The hung man’s blur
is his presence
there,
a belt dangling
his last thoughts
repeating infinitely.
Christ’s eyes glow white.
His neck and sacred
prick pop hot
like St. Theresa’s
scorching ecstasy.
On a dead man’s mattress
I sit up
grieve for us both
who though vicarious sight
have forfeited meaning
for visions.