↓

And torn tissues of light, imperfect and
     misplaced, litter his face, pace a pattern
     past his burning, take out of view his pain,
     blanking out his bruised lips, breaking, saying

     that my warmth is what he can’t do without;
     that what I shoot moonbeams and headlights through
     his dusk, as if pulling off takes him to
     avenues and galaxies—back alleys—

     he can’t get enough of—strange abandon
     he pants out, pants off, performing a trance
     we can’t even shake, so when my starman
     spaces our encounters closer, I run.

                            → ○ ←

And for f(r)iction I fight; in pursuit and
     with haste I enter his place, take moments
     that last longer, and made of so few, I’m
     waiting for him with anticipation

     that antiquates my pen and my mouth so
     that my every effort to paint out
     loud makes my tongue an unwound tape no sound
     can escape; a poisoned technology

     he happens to think better suits me when
     he wants me to paint him but I won’t, since
     self-expression’s sexiest when Fascism
     suppresses poets and alienates men.

                                                              ↑