Pimp’s-hat shadows in the feathery date palm. Everything,
I think, at this illegal

hour in the public park has
a half-drunk gait. Dear slow, dark water, why hesitate

like an older man’s hand on my thigh . . .

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That’s when I knew the mirror was all sex and hard
fact. Unlike knowing my grandfather

posthumously. Because a ghost can’t be
androgynous as a lamp is,

as peat moss is,
as the smell of cedar—

knife-feathery . . .

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