The Morning Guides Me Though My Sexuality

I decided at this point of the morning when the dew was forming

no man was worthy of my poetry

It may come at a loss, but they can all go home now

I will stop the writing and burn those presses down

No heartache formed, but go on to ignore the howling that gnaws 

at my breastbone eagerly on two legs, solidly human

Suckling words from the tips of my mechanical pencils

would most likely be a moot activity left better for the imagination

They can uncurl their toes and their tongues, their veiny hands,

blow out these soy blend candles and those fires in their hair

Because the cool blue morning has spoken her redacted thoughts

and she doesn’t want to warm their ribs