I have grown
comfortable with the endings of things.
Kind syllables start hard words.
A cry of joy sustained becomes moaning
every time. And it is
becoming for fine flesh un-
resurrected to wear death,
as a black fedora sits well on him shod
beauty’s proportion. But if
the heart of a man lives—
and the heart of a man does live
beneath the cotton cloth, the keratin
cloak, and stratified squamous