a kind of love that would have done well
on a farm in Minnesota: Protestant, judging,
held back with two hands, unable to forgive.
but i could never have stopped returning to you
after that day in Christiania.
a sideways glance at grown boy
shirt buttoned solid chest
beard rougher than hands
He was after me, not him
but him, the one from
jilted in Abyssinia
you want to press at me
until i give a squeak
the returning jeer of some cosmic comic
when he gets close i cry in the mirror
call a friend who doesn’t answer