Paradoxical Room

Glorious man, glorious man,

you stood proud over your

hipster shoes covered

in beer-flavored mud

dark as the blackening

of names on a church door.

Windsor man, Gatsby,

towered over my body

with flesh of the Euphrates.

We laid down that white

laminate floor together

as we often laid above it

on white sheets,

dramatic parallel universes.

I should have laid on the floor

to bring my body

closer to the white innocence,

tried to add myself to your

glory bag of holy,

like Moloch.

Holy, Holy, in black matrimony.