The self is a slippery slope.
Sure, first you're man; but then
mischief, lank, and bloody knuckles.
Boys will be boys, and cocks remember
simple things. When climbing the oak I fell
headfirst because decades ago someone said
I wouldn't amount to more than dirt.
Well, dirt has its uses too.
The springs of a flowerbed, for example;
the candor of cosquillita, underneath
a peach heel the night you left
your boots gaping with the index;
the silence sprinkled
on the bridge of your father's
nose as they lay you down.
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