Nobody can salve nobody else's really
which is awful sad.
I mean the grammar of desire
was set pretty early,
the way a butterfly
can hold a sonatina. Gay.
I mean the Daddy/hostage thing.
Or the heliports of sportfucking,
they might as well have had
in Heliopolis or medieval Jerusalem.
Praying mantis fucking.
The head's done off, Dude.
Still pumping away.
What a green tool.
And the man who set your legs on fire
on Tuesday knits. Imagine.
And I realize my god the kid is sane.
The slow winding inwards, granny-
sitting at twenty-seven, beautiful boy
doesn't care if you giggle, doesn't have even
one fuck you for you. Just a path deep
into green woods each morning, the mist
moisturizing his run, the deer all about him
remarking the subtle marriage of bone to bone,
almost wishing they could take him to the other side.
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