i cringe at the mention of eternity
in an emily dickinson verse
she has scribbled herself in a chaos-free room
into a suffering game, well rehearsed

in typical male fashion
i resume criticism of penisless genius
because it's too difficult
to grasp the logic of causeless loneliness

i am the old man and the sea
and feel the spite of a heavy fish tearing into my aching shoulder
but i don't feel this nobel-prize winning desire to be free
when nothing holds you back but the fact that you're get older