American Sonnets: 91

the gates of mercy slammed on the right foot. they would not permit return and bent a wing. there was no choice but to learn to boogaloo. those horrid days were not without their pleasure, learning to swear and wearing mock leather so tight eyes bulged, a stolen puff or two behind crack-broken backs and tickled palms in hallways dark, flirtations during choir practice as the body organized itself against the will (a mystic gone ballistic, not home but blood on the range) as one descended on this effed-up breeding hole of greeds—to suffer chronic seeings was’t hunger or holiness spurred the sighting?