This kiss
of
love:
a
gay
sin
in
our
half—
powerful—
dull,
savage
age.
My
shy
Rose
rose
from
some
shit,
it
grew
through
this
piss
and
sand,
smiles
piled
on
wan,
base
faces
escaped
(caped
like
kites
on
drawn,
low
bowstring
stems)
from
numb
earth
–mirthless
nest—
to
bloom
‘mong
strungout
louts,
ape
shapes,
crime
time
T
V
and
bands
of
love-starved
dwarves;
I
tried,
too,
to
plant
phantom
mums)
more
poor,
thin
sins)
but
cut
them
when
my
shy
Rose
froze.
© 2010 Duane Vorhees
