SpeciesWhere boy faces can’t be told from wrinkles
of old men in boys’ clothes hurrying slowly
towards the dark pulsating wounds between
skeleton buildings under a red moon, like
blood coagulating in a festered lesion; I nod
back from the touch and hemophilic lusts
that won’t ever remember my name, nor I theirs,
except the faces memorized and other faces
seen but not spoken to, identifying glances
that still believe in novels where the lovers
are always young and horny and there is no
death
There is something wrong in promises that
catch up too close with other promises, that
night after night I swore never to come here
again for five minutes of love in the dark,
where the lovers are real and have their own
novels and fantasy lovers, salivating like
dogs in a menagerie of
