#oppositegender

I. I am a man. I’ve lived alone. I’ve been in love. I’ve played with fire, cursed the telephone, and basked in verse, in verve, and also Humid, terrestrial, mixed, nongenderspecific, have occasionally day’s tumult ushers in an evening with a lone moved a woman’s shut icecream stand, false promises of cone heart, although I also, and scoop near Central Park. Juneific famously, had such an awk- are the silhouettes of people dreaming by, ward start. Amazed at lips, lit cigarette tips, thoughts and tulips streaming by how much along dimly hospitable park lamps toward eleven symmetry a life with an occasional rev of internal combustion can still support, I wafted across from nearabouts. stare in rapt near-idiocy, like a “What’s this you are talking about, Sarah?” foreign passport, and you hear a voice, and the reply, “I’m sorry. April’s Persian lilacs but what was I supposed to do?” Two bats all bloom straight into dash through a silver stretch of atmosphere. my face, and various What she was supposed to do we never hear, other blossom, too, depending on each case, while you are softly tangible, while you are sweetly mine. We’re existentially wise, we’re mortally divine.