I call any night that I dream

a loss.  It’s the same 

reason why I can’t look

at my face in the mirror:

the same reason my name

makes me sick.  I don’t

like to listen to myself.

Keep the lights off.  There’s 

red on the glass and 

the light comes through

all bloody and blurred:

a rerun of a death

on three am television.

there’s no saint in 

the stained glass window—

just me and the fool.