My wacky Thisbe’s built a wall
to shield her fragile heart
laid up dreamy purple stones
and murky chunks of amber
from the shores of her past

she never looks when we make love
I know 
in the pale glow from the hall 
I watch her eyes 
the soft grey irises fade inward 
becoming blank moons to ponder
what phantom lover moves 
in the secret space behind them

I come, she goes, we never meet 
I wonder how she drifts so far away 
with me anchored in her 
I want to pass this wall that Thisbe’s built 
to save her heart or rescue mine 
i’m not the one who hurt her 
or told her lies

she sleeps now in my embrace 
I study her, brush back from her moist brow 
the tendrils of soft damp hair 
that mask the childlike ghost 
at play on her features 
whiffs of her breath carry 
fumes from dinner 
wine and garlic fused more closely 
than tender mortises of flesh

--my heart sinks 
when I think I won’t get past the wall 
of dreamy stones and dreary fossils 
mytragic Thisbe’s built 
yet living this invented myth 
threatens my identity 
must I bury my poor love 
a stillborn child of lust 
mark a place in time with murrey 
to mourn on rainbow-lonely days?