I.

I like newness,  the kind that leaves  traces  on the page  of morning.

When it calls,  when it forces you  to see the light—

the morning glory,  the moisture  softening  on the glass  of the windowpane.

The sky  is bluer  than blue.

Let him go.

II.

This is  an easy  test.

The volume of—  the square root of—

Don’t they  need  men?

You remember:  men  make  this  industrial  complex.

I know  where I am.

I know where  I am:  home.

III.

When I ruminate  freely,  I listen  for lines  in voices.

When  I am  writing,  I am  breaking.

Call me  boy  again.  Call me  your  good boy.

Worship  my chest  like a god.

Suck  on  the  pacifier.

I want  to reach  the depths  of your soul.

Loving  from  a distance  is still loving.

Close  the door  behind you. Close  the gap  between us.

The sun  will fall  again.

There is  something  foreign  in my body.

I’ll risk  the hurricane  again.

Let him  go.

IV.

My God,

if you have  left me  here—

after seeing

yourself  in my eyes,

after watching

them  break—

how  can I  look  at myself  the same?

How  can I  call  this  grace?

How  can I  believe  you  still  see me?