The Water-Bearer

I knew the enclave where
he kept his rib cage where
men my father's age would
stick their Daddyhood and
pull for pubic rights.
I knew an avenue; where
his days belonged to
puckered pink, white,
and mottled hues; Where every shade of
want and crystal stream of dew
comprised the voice of God.
And I know where it starts; when
a congested heart comes
rolling by that park in
town to buy a pound of
Oedipal despair,

To fold him forward,
Pressing inward
and careening

and over.

I know the intersections
and corners he works
Torpid erection and white
doe complexion aligned, like
a constellation entwined with a
love-stained concept of God.

Nudging him forward
Forcing inward until
He’s cascading,
One-twenty, no higher,
says the Armani-wrapped buyer
I'll be simple, I rasp,
thumbing his dimples
fumbling to clasp the hues of God.

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