The boy, at least as I drew him, was blind,
translucent, in gray oil against a pout;

more like a slash than frown, the bitter kind.
The girl, in my sketch, faded in and out,

pulled hair, and kicked my ass for suggesting
the things my pencil drew. What can I say?

Under full moon I’ve watched the dead kissing
and things that were only shadows, dim, gray,

made the beast with two backs, took shape down here.
Am I to blame for showing you what I

saw? Yes, perhaps. Of course. Tonight, the clouds
will hang just so. Dead thing; I’ll kiss that smear

from your lips. Second coming, indeed. Die
once more. I’ll leave you in cum-sticky shrouds.