Joyless,
devotedly boyless.
Everything,
the way
nothing is.
The point is this:
make
me less
than the lake
in the sheets.
The horizon
just above sex:
my thoughts
and prayers—
spots
and short hairs.
My itch;
my side-stitch.
Every day
can’t
be lament.
An excuse
to lose
my shirt
for charity.
I feel,
if not real,
neon-real.
Sterile as hurt,
or parity.
from ProprietaryFind it in the library
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