And to the curious I say, Don’t be naïve.
The soul, like a trinket, is a she.
I lay down in the tweed of one man that first frost night.
I did not like the wool of him.
You have one mitochondrial speck of evidence on your cleat.
They can take you down for that.
Did I forget to mention that when you’re dead
You’re dead a long time.
My uncle, dying, told me this when asked,
Why stay here for such suffering.
A chimney swift flits through the fumatorium.
I long for one last Blue democracy,
Which has broke my heart a while.
How many minutes have I left, the lover asked,
To still be beautiful?
I took his blond face in my hands and kissed him blondly
On his mouth.