Jayne and James

With the hand of my anger,
a fist of dolomite to the moonlight,  
I forced this prescient night to bruise the floor
 and turn up the corners of its sheet.
 
Where a life lay unbeholden to the laws of my eyes,
my radio and scent. A ley of dark beehives with black honey
 dripping. Glistening under the thunder, the birthday parties
in which I didn't cry; for when I pulled back my hand,  
would I, could I ever not give away their secret.
 
So I had them make for the morning
a mirror from the skin of a snake,
from which it could shy and shiver away,
  to slide away in nudity's shame.
 But this at least to possess at most, a garment to shed.
A sheet big enough to lay over both the morning and night.