by Benjamin Goodman
that there are bodies and not just
homogeny
is nothing short of famine
guess who’s coming back to earth now
that all the grass has jaded
babbling in a padded room
his hands
half-hitched
behind his back
something like breeding
a real wing-kisser
he keeps womb silent
as I watch
him sow the hair along
the gut just one
crack away from breaking
I ask him is this
love real love
or just another deprivation?
he ponders that one
tells me he can’t tell the difference
his finger
on the braille wind
a tripe-white weeping
into the lily grapes
because we’re all so good