He turns
looks into my hunger
and kisses deep into my longing.
“Aaron… You don’t have to…”
He abolishes my protestations
with the writhe of his lithe quenching desire.
The morning after and I am
UGLY / WOUNDED / ASHAMED
until he convinces me otherwise
with every touch, thrust, confession and truth (?).
Music sings me to joy
as I race beneath an ocean of asphalt
before my forgotten phoenix returns
to haunt, burn, perish and resurrect.
The “truth” is that all poets are fucked;
metaphorically or otherwise.
Written by Jason Wright
May 9, 2017