City of Forgiven Whores

In this city
where birds fly upside
down, and sadness is a welt
made by a raindrop,
he comes to me.
He sings of sleeptalking dreamers,
whores baptized in rivers,
lost wastelands re-opened, then
kisses me, mouth soft and wide,
like he did when still young.

I tug him inside
and we soar till our wings melt--
two candles, burnt to the nub
of a universe rebuilding through
one eye not blinking,
through uncaring gods
converted to new ways of seeing,
at last.