poetry index

• Consider the hairpin turn.
• When you wipe your face on my leg
• I was a boy in a bookstore, “a bathhouse,”
• once mauve faded to pink—beyond sex or reason—
• They love being dead and wonder when we will finally dig it.
• Dead lover of boys, what do you ask for now?
• As if we owned the lock, the key, the hinges.
• Now that you have died
  people refer to you in
  the present tense
• I longed to hold a conversation.
• . . . very flat, so that it seems to open inward, this blueness is if I may call it that, buildings empty, hills almost liquid if there were hills.
• I was happy. I mean, I was in my juice.
• But you expect it of me casually,
• It began to drink the city.
• Catullus: Humankind is glass.
• our wizard reminds us that no occupation lasts forever
• And the infection embeds itself in the stripes of the silk,
• to come down in little circles
  to cover you like a pox.

gay dog!