Rye renders me horny. Nothing wry
about its muzzy fisheye lens,
through which I can see all the fuckers stunting
to fight me. Call it X-rye. Call it men’s
intuition. Call it a kickstart
to the dry-seized engine of a heart
in a body propped up on blocks, shunting
late-night freights of blood from the yard
to all my peripheral parts. It makes me
unbearably sad. It makes me unable,
even as it digs in the spurs. Listen:
I need you now. I’m under the table
with supernova stars in my eyes. Take me
home before they burn out. I’ll miss them.

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