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He’s lying there, making
His minor subtractions
Withholds his erection
With a genital petulance
Unworthy of him,
In my honest opinion
An’ I tell him come on
But he twists his retort
From my goosebumped back
In the form of a burn.
I don’t want to, he says
And he means it
He is reticent white
And I know not to
Argue
So my fingers divine
Their own
Classic of Changes,
Yarrow stalks plastered
With cud and with lace.
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The human race, the only race I know where everybody loses.
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Saint Steven’s
