Who, now, is exquisite?

Who, now, is exquisite?

Even for such loveliness,
unsettling, I cannot emerge fully
out of troubled mind and languid slumber,
into the succulent ripe flesh of peach-plum sunrise,
the too-sweet liquor of the tangible, tactile world.

For I am one who thrives on bitterness,
empty, always afflicted by raven dispositions,
circus wishes, limber imaginings
and glittering elephantine dreams.

Each night I will myself incorporeal,
mad with longing for hollow bones
bowed by the way the West wind moves,
coy and audacious as a callous young man.

My cells shall transfigure into temperamental salt-sting,
cold constellations never to be burned
by any stray electric, wounding touch,
every new city a reflection of the last,
a continuous menagerie of unbearable lightness.

This is my religion.