Love and Other Poems. Alex Dimitrov
I saw
the only place I could live
was here. Inside.
So whoever wanted me
had to come through the body.
Which has rarely been beautiful
to me. Too soft and unconvincing.
Too small. I hope the future
is free of god and memory.
I hope the future is
all body, all blood.
And since to be queer
is a way to forgive life,
I’ll take as long as I want
finishing my cigarette on Seventh,
walking up Christopher
and thinking of everyone
who’s yet to get here—
somewhere in a bedroom maybe,
young and bored across
the country, not impressed
by our parades or idols,
all the sponsorship we bought.
I’m late for a drink but wander,
handsome and aimless,
looking for a sign
before nodding to the dead
who always need a light.
TIME
Again I am unprepared
standing under an awning
in the middle of summer
autumn, winter, spring—
watching the downpour
in what could be
the middle of life;
wondering how long I’ll wait
before becoming the rain.
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