is a dream I had, or the cover of a book,
the subject of which is nakedness,
a streetwise nakedness, a poem I forsook.
Between my thighs, a penis, another type of poem.
It rises with my breath. It points to my blood.
It protects me from the stares of passersby,
it makes my impending death seem good.
The road is awash now. I wish I could rise,
grit for clothes, and make my ginger way
back to my bed of wholeness. But instead
I'll become a poem here for others to say.