Why don’t you relax a little bit,
drop the pen and forget the letters.
oh, Paul, haven’t you ever

Seen a woman with her hair down,
arching her back like a sleepy cat?
it makes circumcision feel so

Unimportant—all this angry ink bled
over a third eyelid when you could
be over another body, inking your

Fingernails into some parchment skin.
Paul, I know you read the Song of
Solomon sometimes, let your fingers

Walk down to that strange appendage
that dangles from your body like an
extra set of rosary beads, Paul,

I think you stifle your lonely
come-song into a set of scrolls,
inscribe your loneliness with a

Couple drops of white ink spilled on
an empty page, still warm with your
body but colder than an obituary.

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