When rain broke a spring day thunder called me dancing.     I'm lying in bed thinking sin, dreaming of being a gigolo,     by the hard sounds wailing from the radio.     The sky was cut by lightning and thunder called me out.     Breathing in the cool air. Breathing in a cigarette.     Tapping feet on sparkling tar on drunken Monday street.     By wet grass twinkles, and clear white puddles,      and street lit streams of stars, I stood upon the sparkling tar      and looked up to your window.)      Lady in Monday wind whose bus comes,    girl in summer's sun whose kisses blow,    woman in midnight rooms, I've watched your arms.    When Monday morning came     I looked through your dark window for stars.     When morning breaks raining      I think of pains I can't tell.     I think of poets on their knees.     I think of pennies left in streets.     I think of grins that lift your twinkling eye     and blood that warms your evening.     I've stolen Cinderella's shoe.      I've sat and watched her swirling eye.      A beggar lost and longing for       the eye that always turned away.      I've kept on my lip the touch of fingers stopping me,     stared wide-eyed at the black back turned on me,     laughed in the face of the moon that failed me,     sat in the quiet of the night that sobered me.     (I hid myself within the broken shell of me.     I walked the streets for days reciting apologies.     I followed your name in cracks of concrete.     I saw you turn your face away in dreams.     I saw you pose before me with eyes held down.     I saw a princess, once, in the back of a bus.     I chanted your name in the sound of pennies flipped.     I saw your face in faces. I walk now     with a face in my eyelid, a voice in my ear.     I cleaned my room. I cut my hair.    I held my head down in restaurants, ashamed.     I couldn't stare into eyes and my fingers jittered.     I kept notes and drawings of the colors you wore,     the shape of your neck, the glitter of make-up around your eye,     the words you spoke, the company you kept. I took photographs.      The concrete asked me why and I didn't know.     I whistled and walked but couldn't. I can't.     I wrote poems about ravens and chocolate and jasmine and eyes I want to     get lost in.     In dreams you get closer.)      O whistling tunes would define my lady-o.     O and the moon would light the stars in your dark window

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