Little What
       

In the darkness. What a sonnet. When muscle
grunts, gives, accepts, resists, sucks its breath,
even aches. But is not broken. What is going up.
Not a wrong way. What is going in. What is darkness
but unseen. Where are those nerves? There. What
a sonnet. Like a bed with a penis. Growing harder.
Like a hallway after grief. A curse and a whisper,
an awe, out of which the wolf arose. On your lap.
Nails clicking, down the finally dark purple
each man sits on quietly, secretly. A hyacinth. That
strange boy dead, transformed into petals. My
God. What a sonnet, what a little song of nails.
Slap it. Wolf it down. Slip it in, sing on. The mouth
shivers and opens to be a moan, that moon.
This ephemeral day, even the afterglow.

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Copyright © 2017 Jeff Oaks All rights reserved
from Mistakes with Strangers
Seven Kitchens Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission