Where have all your sidewalks led,
since your courage left our bed?
Can you hear the crickets chirp—
from the belly of father time?
And what fools mistook you for Silversteen,
while you begged the noise of Jesse Bernstein?
Cut me where you want to live while my verdict is out.
Be thankful for my suicide that delayed you from any guilt.
I am hunted for my ivory,
but I am selling scraps of brass.
I am yours without a wisp of cloth,
but my fingers are folded in fuchsia sand.
Lead me to your suffering.
I will stay there through tonight.
Cut me pearls from the necks of women wearing white.
Then pour me tea and floss my teeth with the children flying kites.
Chain me to your living room, gray plastic draping the rest of my life.