Frank Lima

 “01.03.2000,”

I found the words in a box and became recklessly enamored with

Them. As I watched, they blew smoke rings into my sacramental

Face. I was a blind old man, unzipping my life before them and

Trembling at the touch of cold marble. My fingers were once wild

Pigeons perched on the statues and I would sacrifice my soul for the

Erotic stillness of yesterday. The words would arrive through the nail

Holes in the century wearing the flickering faces of the past. I fit myself

Into anyone that will have me, who will shoot at me with the hours of a

Wheelchair. When will I stop looking over my shoulder in the subway?

I collected the tickets at the door, and made it perfectly clear that 

Writing is as lonely as a pile of discarded shoes. Heaven is wingless and

Far away and there are no books that mention your name or mine.