My bed must be made, and

Never climbed into again. I must get myself

Out of here, seek different vistas, the other side

Of the highway, clasping her bronzed hand

(she’s a prophetess    she

who mirrored no surprise but

smiled my own image back to me).

I never broke

Any bones   I admit it. Nobody

Else’s, or my own. A damn

Timid child. I’m

Regretting this, now. So

(in spite of their slapping my knuckles

with a Bible) I will

Find myself a gay little

Alleyway cardboard condo

And sing there For the next hundred years or so,

I’ll embrace anyone who comes to my door.

I’ll wash away their envy with fresh

Pomegranate juice. I

fear I might grow old.

This one consciousness I know

Is doing its best to wake up,

To savour the kiwis shipped thousands of

Miles and the coffeebean berries roasted (by children,

I guess) in Brazil. Doing its best

To get out of lineups      to breathe

(the luxury of a monk), to blow

Locks of hair out of her eyes,

To tell her  with pen paper touch that I somedays

Really believe I might be –

Courageous (

just enough for that). Gotta make sure

I get my borders broken, before the next sun rises.