beginings.

a silhouette against the sun,


all shadow, a young man,

my first memory of that year.



a girl with porcelain skin,

the darkest angel, my savior,

come to find me in this place.



he leans over a desk, a smile

playing on his lips, lighting up

his coffee-colored eyes.



she grasps my hand and traces

every line and contour, singing

a soft song i can't remember.



his skin is warm, our hands brush

while we read the words written

by people we'll never know.



she always told me things would

change, but then, i had music,

and his face, and need for nothing else.

lullaby.

i squint my eyes, looking


through the window, and

the streetlamps make stars

that shimmer on the black.



her face is the picture

of tired resignation, of

peace in the knowledge

that she had lost a long,

hard fought battle.



of everything, i remember

details, lighting cigarettes

on the stove, the chill

of winter air on my face,

the perfect way your lips

pressed against mine.



i let the music sing me to sleep,

wishing it was you.

traces. (the flight of the bishop.)

walking streets in seattle,


a little boy asks me to

draw a card, any card,

from the deck he offers.



i came here yesterday or

a hundred years ago,

in the middle of the war,

to trace the footfalls

of dead men through

the east.



i grasp a card between my

index and middle fingers,

and turn it up so i can

see.



queen of clubs.

almost like magic.



in an instant, a lifetime

crosses behind my eyes,

the flash of lighting across

the sky, tears ruining the

ink on a page, a teacup

shattering on the kitchen

floor, figures in black and

white spinning across the

ballroom.



queen of clubs.

it's time to run again.

september.

i sit and drink my evening tea,


and settle in to read the old letters.

the taste of orange, it lingers on

my tongue.



you threw up the blinds,

to let in the full glare of

a bright cold day in the city.



i lay by the lake and breathe

in the smell of the earth,

so like your skin.



meeting strangers at dawn,

you resettle your glasses on

your crooked nose.



evenings alone, with thoughts of you.

immortal. (bishop and cassiana II)

walking these deserted


corridors, the ruin of the

old palace, my footfalls

echoing off the cold stone

floors, i pass a painting,

softly lit in the early

morning's light.



"bring me the universe,"

a whisper in my ear.



the girl regards me,

frozen in time, precisely

as she was back then,

her eyes cold, no blood

warming her the porcelain

of her cheeks.



"show me to the stars,"

a breath upon my neck.



the whole world contained

in her crystal earing, the

eyes of god that shine

from the diamonds of her

necklace, frozen light,

perfection caught in

the eternity of the ring

upon her hand.



"let me dance with the angels."

cassiana, come to find me again.

the usual suicide (bishop and cassiana I)

"this is what it's like to really be alive",


says the girl, a black dove placed

serenly above everything else,

on this Chicago skyscraper.



she's holding a rose over the edge,

and pulling off petals,

one by one, letting them

fly into the crowds below,

like some forever-game of

'he loves me not.'



the whole city burns behind us

and in our eyes.



i don't bother to stretch out a hand.



"it's not as if i want to die", she says.

and she smiles the way she did when i

met her a hundred years ago.



"i just want to fall.

what happens after, i don't know."



we're the whole world while she

pulls off the last petal, and lets it

disappear, blown off into a starless night.



"if you could fall forever, wouldn't you?"