I traipse through this slow
fastidious period, fibrous
and lobular, with no known cause
too stiff to split or arch
all the way behind me
too cautious to kick
box or wrestle an oiled body
into a homo-erotic clutch
sometimes, while glancing
toward the layers of my own
collage, a pang of futility
wedges between glue
and yellow formica table
then, reminded of the fleet
passage here, I lean forward
and slightly left, cross my limbs
tilt gently to one side, and smear
“YES” paste on the back of an opaque
doorway, glue a blue flower
below a small pink rose
