The big-armed angel left and leaves behind a wound
that sounds the heart but looks nothing like a wound.
To close the wound the lovers clasp the other tight.
They know that letting go will open up the wound.
Mother would daub a cut with yellow medicine
and mint a gold coin of the skin. I hoard these wounds.
The world, holding so many things, so many nothings,
is best represented by the body and its wounds.
When I think I can live with being queer all my life,
a morning happens, and the scar unlocks the wound.
A subtler metaphor marries a man to a man.
Comely gods and goddesses leap out from that wound.
My tongue flickering his ass, Hermes asked for more.
A cock was all Jee had on him to cure his wound.