Boy Delilah

,

They want evidence,
cold hard fact.
They want his picture taken to prove
that he is more than decadence,
more than a superficial
artifact,
crafted by human celebration,
a soft man
created to be their
genteel bow-tie metropolis man
wearing teal, not green,
a crossing-his-legs-out-on-the-scene man
with soft hands
wearing pointed toes, not steel.
He is only in their minds,
something they find appropriate
to construct,
somebody they think would be
a good fuck,
bottom, they say, because he looks delicate,
a boy Delilah
who can make great men stumble
a sweet Calcavella,
the catalyst
for making great cities crumble,
definitely not a works-with-his-hands,
trekking back-country,
falling-for-a-horticulturalist man.
They know him, they think
(but they don’t),
because they see him
and that’s enough for a taxonomy,
something like astronomy.
Watching stars in the distance
has great margin
for error
and so they name him quickly
because something indefinite will always
cultivate terror.

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