Xray Skating

Skating, this is like skating,
With my fingers on these
Panels, tracing
Laminations,
The ice swirling
All with the warmth
Of a certain expertise.
X rays, x rays--
What passion I find,
No skullduggery or frieze
Forensic, these wisps being
His breath, his lungs, his ribs.
If held up to light
The curls of my cigarette,
The thumb &; the index holding it
Combines with his life.
So skeletal, so spirit, that, his head,
The bumped bridge of his nose,
Those his lips, his teeth, his eyes
&; he held inside me in the pulse
Of my touch.
Come, take me plate-pressed
While holding his face.
I know where our bones hide,
In what brain hills &; black caves
Opening diaphanous.
This is no cannibalism, these votives
On film, only a deity:
X rays that when placed on paintings,
Each portrait of us, brings window
After window for a just beginning
Cathedral.
What is death?
Nothingness?
None of that enters in these rays
Painting
Song