Christopher Street 1979
Storm, park, and restless,
one preservation on the Hudson docks for
homosexuals hand in hand,
cornering the bar with leathered glances—
we are the boys who love.
Where are my lovers?
Penis and limp flesh,
city doves and pale sheets,
the shedding of denim and cotton briefs
The Village Cigar store at two a.m.
Light drooling on the street
and the alabaster adonis alone.
How warm is your sperm
like milk and beer and morning
beside your hardness.
Heaven sucks the angels
and our groans fill the street with desolation—
so we are fallen creatures
children of the wasted seed.
one preservation on the Hudson docks for
homosexuals hand in hand,
cornering the bar with leathered glances—
we are the boys who love.
Where are my lovers?
Penis and limp flesh,
city doves and pale sheets,
the shedding of denim and cotton briefs
The Village Cigar store at two a.m.
Light drooling on the street
and the alabaster adonis alone.
How warm is your sperm
like milk and beer and morning
beside your hardness.
Heaven sucks the angels
and our groans fill the street with desolation—
so we are fallen creatures
children of the wasted seed.
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