Ars Poetica: At Fifty

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Between two men drinking from the same

dirty glass, a choice

that often goes unexpressed—green

olives passed back

and forth in the mouths of a father and son

in a corner booth

where cock and regrets have never spoken

openly about what is

most desired, a moment spreading its rash

longings deep enough

where no one can touch, soothe, or work

out all the tension

balled-up into knots— yoga and mindfulness

on a mat drenched

with sweat unable to compensate for faces

ramming up against

pubic bone where one can still inhale

rising bread. The world

was wrong. Love allows our tongues to follow

thirst to whatever needs

to be reached—a cube of ice on a hot stove

riding its own melting.