I would fain go within,
without the worry still that this poor fellow
might yet overstep his bounds. Sunday.
Soon. Unwetness even once humid,
he became it: quality
of a quality’s opposite.
Not woman, who has nothing to oppose her.
All your answers are the perfect ones,
but I’m not cured. 4:30. 1994. Young
adulthood. April. When was I whisked away,
pussy dry as a bone when the wind falls down it,
don’t touch it, will he take it back?
It’s true, but I wonder. No one ever
asks me about anything
and nobody better start now!