Buried in the Most Perfect Oblivion

Sir,

can an army of single men defile me?
Fire me its shoddiest glance
collectively? Uncivilize our union
or mortar the walls our heart
immures us behind immor(t)ally?

Buried in the most perfect
oblivion, haven’t we been freed?
Never more than here, beneath
booted feet; not even when we
cut our Selves each from lynching trees?

For I’ve seen minds hazing the tame,
liquored breath descending from above,
and I’ve tasted oppression’s lips; reigned
shackled in the timid humidity of love
profaned by opinion, not knowing its name.

Wineskins and foreskins emptied
of suppressed wealth fit anew dawn
with tattered dress, patched with
a misunderstanding a man can undo
a floodgate before it consumes from within.

Such was our burial, precariously unaware
of transgression; tasting behind its wet face
since plastered, a torrent of fears erasing
disbelief suspended from our school of thought;
advancing placements in truant citadels on high

for recompense; fining us proffered tunes—
whistled wind—for johns bobbing on by. “Too soon,”
you might’ve cried—but Sir, here we are on each other’s
eternal nerves and side, immune to cruising, hidden
from hurt (life’s binding curse); my blindness

obverse.