The Good Friday Bus Stop

She told me she could only be what she
could be, and could never be what she could
never be,
and pleaded
goodbye,
as she told me to
write down my
venal books on my
own
skin,and then
carry on my synthetic
evenings,
and shag the candles
with Jeff Buckley,
unless, she said,I
want to become finely skeined
obscura.And was leaving.
I picked glass and dirt
from my knees,quit
praying forever,but
also,
said goodbye
to her,
the egg of the world,
who had
never understood
when I'd explained
that all I
ever wanted
was to put myself
into her mouth,
the place where she
prays.

The bus came and
took her away.