The whine
of the 24-
line—
anymore,
what's
it for?
Like a sale
on sale,
I bought
the thought:
I'm not
staying.
Was I
trying
to fit
California
into
Connecticut?
Without
doubt.
The body
settles
itself—
I lie
on the right
side
of the bed
instead
of hope.
I pick out
and lay out
my workout
outfit
the night
before.
To cope.
Lotions
and potions
lance
emotions.
A boil.
Silence
your new
humiliation,
a stylistic
tic.
No pic,
no dial.
We'll
always
have Russian
dressing
at the mall,
TGI Fridays.
My oligarch
after dark.
Our plans
second-
hand
fashion.
Middle-
class as
a buffet,
my gay
life measured
out
in Madonna
LPs—please
play
True Blue.
Admit it.
You hate it.
Does that
hurt.
It's not
a question.
Your face
transformed
into a bird's.
You changed
your thoughts
and had
the haunts
of birds.
I scour
the street
for meat.
Controlled
transparency,
the hours.
Flies,
sated
elsewise.
My pump-
and-dump
romance:
goodbye.
You once
said
your safe
word
was sneeze
guard—
that's two.
That's us.
Please.
You
are gorgeous.
