All in Red
The sun is drifting away again, behind cloudsthat look most like the hairs well sprung
from my temples. I can’t see the sun setting,but I know it is. So many things are like this:
merely a sensation of truth. I can’t see my bodychanging, but I know it already is. Just as I know
there’s a woman at the benches on BainbridgeStreet, though I am not there with her.
She is thumbing through a stack of photosof her son, printed on copy paper,
kept quarter-folded in her purse. I knowthat her son is adored, though I sense
he does not. I know that my masculinityis a fragile and delicate thing. I refuse all
glasses with stems. I’ve always been clumsywith a sense of strength that I may…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, January/February 2025