Love Poem Skirting S&M

Dear Closet Weeper, the first snowflake is falling on the blue field of Boise. Do you still
prefer people to allegories? Detectives to deities? All night a blue-grey eye occupied
your peephole. Look, it’s terribly hard to see through a head, living or dead. I regret
that I shall never see you this evening. Instead, I hold hands with my only hostage.
I keep my fingers locked. If I handcuff myself to this double bed, I’ll appear larger than
ever before. There’s always a first. All that hyssop and bark igniting in one chamber of
the heart. Often, a second goes by without a hand. Like this now—now near the corner
of 17th and Moot, where I’m watching the snow conceal the angel I made of you.