by Benjamin Goodman

that there are bodies and not just
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 
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