High Wire No Flowers
27th February 1964
Nembutal sleep
Scattered pages drink pure,
Read, re-read and carefully annotated.
The mattress altar,
Your libation blood
In paper in print
Suffused, soaking
Genet’s Eucharist
The body of a Saint,
This body of work
You lay with, openly.
Slowly the seeping
Forced you within him
Forever-more.
His beauty was a wound.
You seared a beauty
Too transcendent for his eyes.
12th March 1964,
Days later,
Gendarmerie
Smash the door.
To clear the stench
Of your shrine,
The altar
Slipped into the Seine
At midnight.
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