among all
the old white cis folx I knowI’m almost the one
who’s oldest, whitest, cis-est, so
don’t call me a cunt
or silly
or a prick and
stupid
it’s just my turn
on the pyre
of necessity
heat seeking
alternate titles
for the ceaseless moments
we’re caught in the gravity strands
of when we’re bereft
it’s
easy
for stars to be aligned
at least for any two
the shortest distance between us
shall we call it straight
our lips our legs our
polysyllables not
withstanding
the volcanoes of lava
the balls of pumice
bobbing on oceans of grief?