by Greg Baysans

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Poet X

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After the glory of, 
after the trauma of, 
after the weeked of boys, boys, boys 
whose torsos swam and wallowed, all fly home. 
There has to be abstraction 
just as pretty: watermelon seeds, 
frogs in boxes, corpses. 
Music would do the job 
if it had fingernails, hair. 
Relaxing the anal sphincter 
only comes close. 
Forget about the calendar and perfumes. 
When the fireflies become stars 
or bears playmates, wen 
no one wins whatever games get started 
and fur coats grow mammary glands 
the night will be welcome, 
when hands grow in the dark void between 
beds as old as tall trees. 


Tomorrow is last week Tuesday 
and three years ago July 
but not the peopled weekend, 
boys, men, verse.