Please God, don't let Christmas come
Without my Randolph Taylor.
My quest is still a painful one:
Adrift at sea, a lonesome sailor.

I can't believe that he is dead,
His soul bound to the quilt.
Oh can't this be another man,
Same name, in golden gilt?)

How many years I've walked this path
Of love's devotion on the cross,
Only to echo The Devil's laugh:
"You lost, you lost, you lost!"

I pray, I guess, for miracles,
Each breath a sacred wish:
My heart a candle in the dark,
Or in the deep blue ocean, a single
  golden fish!



"Please help me stop the dying," was
Randolph's tender plea,
Scrolled across a letter:
The first he sent to me.

But now my sadness falls like rain,
And drowns my joy like a broken toy.
I cannot bear this pain.

I cannot bear not knowing
How you, dear Randolph, are.
(My heart forever glowing, whether
   near or far
For a man who gave me everything
And set my course to a star!)

Without you, my dear Randolph,
I have no way to steer.
The waves are crashing 'gainst the prow;
The clouds are tumbling near!

I yearn for you my chipmunk,
My little piece of Heaven.
If my soul were a loaf of bread,
Your kiss would be the leaven.

Quilt display in San Francisco's City Hall, November 1992
(Honoring S.F. police who died of AIDS.)