when all the formalities have
finally been packed away
in a box marked p.c.,
when they've been stored
in the attic until some later
season when couth is again
in fashion, we'll use the proper word:
squatting. or perhaps, renting.
sure, there are those who still like
to costume their actions in words
like "dating" or even "talking,"
but it is now much too cold
for such flimsy decorative terms.
bring on the wool sweaters,
the stocking caps, the sweatpants:
the truth is an extra-large sweater
that you think you'll never grow into.
it takes courage to try it on, because
you do look foolish at first, with its arms
extending far beyond yours, and its neck
orbiting yours at a very cautious distance.
but if you keep wearing it, you'll find yourself
saying things like "i miss you," and you'll
feel yourself growing, feel your shoulders
wearing the sweater on this early morning
in november, i found myself writing this:
i never thought i was doing such a
hits glass, peacock-sized
but blue-boned and screams rainbows
dampened to the mouthful formant
a vhs tape tongue
i turn to, from, to, from
onto a belly with no dumpster lunch.
my displaced slit throat slips
easy underhead in R.E.M.
for want of a violet that never comes,
wanting an indigo long forgot.