heart like a boy,
i dream i fly
to the spire of island —
ride beating flanks
to land on green sable,
rub the birthstone —
red stone smooth,
burnt ember —
reach to you,
i fear your eyes,
my curiosity.
you hand me
a golden rope,
i do not know
how it could be…
boy piss-stream
beads on lilies
how we have bodies —
edge of
living,
point of splendor.
press the rope to me,
dry wheat straw,
hidden ember… dream
of lips, your
salt-dry fingers.
- 27.03
poetryandpoet 
this is a difficult piece. a kind of ‘hamlet’, to be or not to be, thing. where i’m asking if i’m my body and if so, if my child body was perfect and all my life after childhood is a degeneration. or, if i’m spirit, if my spirit passes through my various stages of growth into manhood and old age? and, if so, must the body force its needs on me so much that i have to trick it into submission, yoga-bend it into submission… give up dancing and turn into stone. suicide note, really. i want to, feel, that i’m as alive as i when when i was only a child with nothing between me and the stars.