Sitting
here voided
next
to
artificial
waterfalls,
listen.
Look
at
the man
and
his luggage
a
black suitcase
like
his face
an
unusually shy face
but
you thought
all
black guys
were
hung.
Is
he not?
You
decide he is
but
is shy
because
he
is a sentimental
person.
You
like that.
If
you were vaginal
if
that’s his thing
if
you were human
he
would come
to
you
first.
You
suck small
dark
flies
into
your mouth
as
if
they
are leaves,
falling,
brittle
scraps,
drifting
listless
and
slow about
the
fountain
the
park bench
and
you sway a little
as
if outstretched
on
a
precipice,
nearly
to topple
to
fall quavering before
the
dazed hillscape.
Sifting
through
the
tired air,
an
uncertainty like
fear,
itself
a calm scattering.
The
man with luggage
comes
over and
asks
you
for
something
a
dollar
a
hug
a
rimjob
who
cares
and
his pores
are
dry
and
you are separate
equivocal
beneath the droop
of
silhouetted branches
dripping
temperate
flakes,
crusted
and gray,
in
the tired air,
a
floating,
as
of ash and cinder
off
a fire.
