crinkled shut my eyelids vs. the world
lost myself 8 hundred years ago
forgot myself in that redhead's cream white habits
cranberry in a haystack
and his brother,
an unlikely duo, but what's the fun in likely
    or historically accurate?

as he stifled in his brother's absence so did i.
they of my own creation, i missed them;
they hurt me more than the mop-haired kid
jeering between so many sets of parallel lines
they confused me more than the flippant word that i did not recall,
in a language i halfway know,
   i find a little solace in my english!

the last place i looked was a cathedral,
a cupcake thing topped with pink-glazed domes that nurse the sky,
traversed those humid lanes, passively seeking revelation,
and hoping no one saw the magen david that tagged me in golden
heresy, and hoping i believed it.
  (it's not easy to forget, just easy to neglect)
nothing moved or moved for me. i could only say,
that pillar's too thick, that
Passion, uninspired.
   if they were unhappy with this what joy could I expect?

ever the critic, watching for flaws
even from behind closed eyes,
I left thinking
   whatever part of me they took
   is nothing of use to either of us.
   not on a good day,
   not unless we had to.