The mellow anger of his hair
Disputes his sleepy girl's face.
His robe glows like a painted wound
Upon the bent meditation of his body.
His hands are so thin that silence bruises them:
Thin from the pressure brought by endless prayer. . .
When you were with me I did not know
That your voice was pouring him out in molten colors
To be shaped by the fingers of my memory--
This prince-made-of-many-deal-loves.
