there are those, I discovered late, who were not born
loathing their bodies
whose faces grew from their souls, & were not stamped
upon a skull with little care
whose arms & legs grew evenly, & filled out
to shape the natural Adonii
who could smile a perfect smile, & had never struggled
to practice their expressions
in river water

after you, we signed an accord – no more loathing; we work
with what we have
as I would prefer a finer skeleton, with nobler
flesh, so too
does my meat desire a cleaner mind; a more honest
& open heart
& neither bone nor soul dares to dream
of what could have been
had grace been aware of our birth

now, we tear the contract, & cast our duties aside & know
something like forgiveness;
my arms knew peace after you stepped into them, as I
forgave my fingers their crooked grasp
I forgave my smile for its failures, as my lips
came to know yours
& even the shrivelled jaw & receded chin know peace
when they come to nestle between your thighs
where a stronger jaw
might not have reached

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poetry
poetry

Talkin’ Bouquet Blues

roses are only beautiful because
they are weak
& you are not weak
but filled with the ghosts of a thousand lover’s bowers
you have outlived a thousand roses

Release

after years I understood that I
am not the great hero of my
own poems; all failures &
cruelties are mine & belong
to me – all weaknesses of the world
are the weaknesses I own

Upon the Poet, in His 25th Year

Let it be no calmer in your hands; time enough
for the calm, the warmth and the cold in the grove…

Holy

Progression will not be found in the holy, the holy, the holy nothing will be found in the holy as we are holy, as we decry the soul is a fingertip of the holy, the holy is not the soul, the soul is man and woman and base and growing and shrivelling and a rotten petal...