Lentement, Doucement, Discretement

This is not an accident. I used to call him a lazy criminal. Scooping hearts and spilling blood, leaving footprints, fingerprints. Stains. Eyes folding over -- the blindman or the beggar? Lips that blossomed into blueprints. Hands that rhymed with dreams, instead. The weeknights, dark and warm in a season of curled paper. No speaking -- guilt only follows past the second trip through the door. And then the mornings. More sun in him than the greenhouse where we watched dragonfly wings. A pattern about him like dragonfly wings. In those days we knew what it meant to point without wounding. We knew how to need someone without wanting, without loving.