Saturday, July 21, 2018


Back when we were hippie angels,
and too many men resembled Christ,
(the white one with a beard) when we faked
that we were comfortable being naked with
each other – do you recall the nights that
filled that 1969 September in Vermont
in which you came to me to come with me,
stripped and took my clothes off too, held me
and enlisted me to hold you and to kiss you
while you cried and we decided not to speak
of it, despite how many times the light
went out when you returned another night
and then another and another, vexed
and tender, coming, going, coming, coming,
rendering the month I adolescently renamed
Sextember the only month before or since
that matters in my life? Do you remember
that bright anguished lie? Neither do I.

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