Because you
came here dressed as a man,
in a shirt.
Because things keep slipping.
Shifting distinctions.
Hiding your desire for
alike.
Left adrift
you venture your throat
to a word that tightens
around the sounds you might
produce.
You surrender to your own story,
told. Mothlike
hands wide, slow
flapping,
in and
out.
An imprint held.
Curved like a bone.
Leading edge to foil.
To reveal where thoughts are
sinking.
A last glimpse,
until
it bores its way out.