“they did not hear them the first time.”
They hired a team of gay men who do this
gardening gig to do it for them
If his body rots in the mouth of maggots
let’s go to Zuni
Down his throat
poured a river of beer and rum
In the coercive moonlight of Diamond Heights
his red hair, gold
He’d like the symbolism
and of course the spring flowers
He was subtle, always said, “Hello my friend,”
as though he knew us better than indeed he did
If the words I wrote, and throw up into the sky, in his direction
mean what I think they do
Then deep into the black earth a post I dig, that says
retention must be paid
I found out who he really was
through the name on the bracelet, pink and white beads
A couple of guys from Ireland
passing through town and one says, “Die faggots”
If there was no poetry there would be no
toy, face, torment, healing, gladiola, prix fixe, heaven
