Old memories of midnight tribes
like black volcanic glass
found there is the everyday disarray of common stone.

We had long coats and carried old pistols
behind that barbed wire,
looked for ways across the stagnant river.

It could have been you
who just pressed a hand to the back of my neck.

I let my heart rest.
Old magics assimilated from Assyrians
in black curls of ancient hair
and near Egyptian eyeliner
we contrasted with the modern doll
fit to factory clothes
and made to fill the stupid fancies.

Somebody brought me a fashionable pair of gloves
but they were too bulky to find your hand.
I wanted you to forgo those tacky mittens
with no trigger finger
but you risked hiding against the icefall
that tore down the damp clouds
and fell against the black asphalt
in the tinkle of horrible bells.
Ringing, always ringing, knitted there
like a cap through the caked blood in my ear
that had listened in red to love.