BIOGRAPHIA
 

Apologia
 

After everything, I am the apologetic tree, the first leaf, the franchise,

always pleasing women who have the double band of signature across

their knees. I am the piece picked from the invisible. My pink edition

scuttles the erotic feed of this passage. Follow close this transgression,

this postcard, this tear. My failings bear you to water. Aporia sets your

legs adrift. The modalities of my yes lie in your wanderings, your warm

and erratic sex. My neck is a miniature cameo of its own chance. I am

not the parings of my privacy — as if my stripped shrinking were haste —

I am hidden, not figure, not thought. My blood is jeweled in doubt. My

birth rustles its pledge. My dress opens with the sound of birds. My own

nakedness dips with whitened fingers into your mouth. My teeth are here.

My fringes part as only the pedestrian can convey. Thank God that I stand

simply with a boy slightly similar to myself? Where else would I go? For

my arteries sprawl, too gothic, too called.
 
 
 

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