His years line up there in receding ranks
Like so many doubting Thomases.

But the sun will set, she knows; its ruddy dooms
Be snuffed like matches, low windows dark once more.

The sea of pages; MelvilIe in older age:
The grown man’s sleepy defiance of denial.

The rounds of seasons, this year’s style or that
Year’s loss; core sample of eternity.

We chug and churn like clumsy gears, machined
for motion but clanking, slow, heavy with friction.

No definition tells you rooms exist:
touch them too hard, too long, and like mimosa
they close against a stem so sightless green

after each failure, let me lay the bone of my nose
on the peach flesh and lift up my mouth to the pit

want to be there? I whimper as though … silly …
then get mad. I could smash your valiant head.

Completely naked. mons completely gray.
my mother tells me how to masturbate

“What are you looking for?” and feel it will
be hid from me, whatever it is still,
or rapidly moving beyond my frequency.