Sketches of a Dead Man Breakfasting with God -- Star Black

XI

Denuded now,
I dwell between keys,
a plexiglass portal no one sees,
an "o" in "fogged clarity,"
or an ovoid with one thin memory.
Something occured,
like an unplayed score,
but the virile paragons flame no more.
Like lashes of lost rain,
they evaporate
in a thwunk of sun
that comes and comes.
The world hires "outriders" to police
its race-track hooves.
A virus of televisions curtails the veering words
that once preened, sveltely,
to a rock-bound taper
in a remote monastery.
My love, also, wrote and drew.
He will have young fans,
Deadhead vans, women who shriek.
He will have the Gap-clad,
hopeful roses.