one thing is branching into many

forks and splays without me ready

how must I ever learn to sew

my love into some kind of show

to rain upon the crowd of truth

that unlike my heart, the mouth: uncouth

 

there’s a simmer that will not rhyme

or ever change with passing time

 

but when it’s thick and hot I feel

that sticky comfort of what’s real

wriggling the atmosphere

and deep within the haze it’s clear

a faux mirage, you silly thing

we built it from weak wood in spring

 

let it melt, and courage! See:

our funny queer reality

 

so wedge your girth between the forks

but leave windows open, holes uncorked

releasing breath for just a few

You’re all that’s ever been construed