If I Were a Poet

December, midnight,
Ice does not melt in my outstretched hands.
Two human bodies embrace, leaning against me,
shivering maybe from the winter cold,
or maybe from each other’s touch.
Long ago, so long ago I can barely remember,
I was one of them.

The penetrating moonlight reveals my anatomy
to these nameless lovers:
An abandoned sparrow’s nest has replaced my soul.

Whisper a song to celebrate the fall
from angel to man, from man to me,
a thing of less value than dust.
Cry a song for all who have died
trying to scale the walled city of a woman’s heart.
And when the singing is done I will return to my solitude,
wondering hopelessly why all this striving must be.

While I was still trapped in flesh,
I was susceptible to strange fits of passion.
Now I am immune.
Marble drinks time’s poison slowly.
Until I succumb to that drip
there is only myself
and the ice.