cardinal rule

ugly and disbelieving friends stare you down, but
I believe in you when you talk, and look at you--
wavering-- under the cover of my green eyes.
tricks of the light, my dear, tricks of the light:
you know things that aren't real but cannot
edit them out from the sunweed tangle of
what you mean to believe. but I believe in you.

and your eyes are blue, and silhouettes against the
dark sky, and thick with jungle-root deities.
I think of you as Velocity, murderous pale-white arms
spinning webs of colour and science with
laughing mouths like oatmeal with cinnamon.
and so I break my cardinal rule, and talk to you.
I trace a line on the dark-tinged pavement,
in blue chalk soot on your eyes. can I call you
names I shouldn't? can you believe the way
a crackling silence shoots you through your ribs?
tricks of the light, my dear, tricks of the light,
but I believe in them.