Kama, Eros, whatever. Names are air, and I’m all breath to feel.
I’m no God. I’m what you wish a God would make you feel.
Penlight between bared wolf teeth, I shake you out like a drawer.
Cry thief, and I’m gone, and all you’re left with is a hole to fill.
Bach and Dante folded their wings and ate my corn,
The blanks of my palms tickled by those austere profiles.
Don’t think winged boy. Think bird of prey. Or no: Think tick,
The mole by the lip that makes mere perfection beautiful.
A flute is either hollow or it’s spilling sound.
One rescue breath, Amit, and look at you—full!