january commute (trying not to care)
trying not to care
that I flew across that platform
like a thimble in a windstorm
scrambled up the stairs like a fairy grinding dirt
stared out the second level window over trees
and tracks and marsh
at lakes reminding me
of watery roots for mermaids
and their petaled kin
imagined bluffs as launching pads
for airless summer love
in beds of ivy pebbles sand
the surf inseminating landfill
while the frogs and rushes slept
while the rot of summer leaks
trying not to care
that all this winter beauty fills me up
emboldens my already far flung limbs and gestures
as I hover between man and madrigal
florid horse & fancy pony
bull and china doe
the smiles and stares
as satchels - book bags
a lunch pail fit for queens
dangle from extremities
baubles on some blazing pine
the queer relentless pleasure pain and seeking out
of comfort in a
body
as it flings itself through poses
as natural as frost
trying not to care
photo by pete gafney (taken many any years ago! needless to say)
designation youth
when he was young again
before that final infancy
babied them in cubist
cradles
refracting joy and wisdom
into trust
moved them swiftly out of
teen inspired jeans
(draped like fallen petals
upon their lacy frames)
into trousers - cuffs and
pleats - stopping long enough
considering cravats - but
saying no
Prufrock had it right - no
mannered frill across
those firmaments of graying
lust
just simple line and shadow
gracing shallow pools of
once taut crops
falling into florid rows of flimsy
flesh
fashion not as folly but
the well hung framing
of all those years that
pass as light
having known in his first
blush of truth
much older men who grazed
along
the edges of his snowy
thighs
on feathered follicles when
summer sun
transformed them into gold
so now he ambles back in
middle age
to same sex sites of
longing
for the brevity of lust
with older men
becoming hope and love and
care
parenting lovers in ways in
which
his own familial unit
failed to dare
so there he goes - bob bob
bobbing on the edges of their thighs
he has become too old for
their desire to hold
but has somehow found a way
to set that snare
to beat that drum - to
fumble in and out and back
again to where his first
last stab began…
The Call of the Open
