The boy who will later be a polo player
wants me baffled and vertical, utterly
in the hallway, monkey-sudden
on a jungle gym. This is deviation:
I had no designs on altitude, knees
flush to the acrylic; all that yellow
was more light than I can speak against.
He talks dirty in diminutives, bears up
under hot water. In a bar on Valentine’s
he’ll write I FUCKED MR ____ on my
shirt. I’ll say This shirt is my evidence.
He’ll say The evidence is wearing it.