unlovely
BY MITCHELL KING
there are many paths home and few of them are safe
in the literature of birds
Death does not make them a good person—I have not misspoken
my mouth is ugly but free of lies
Michael holds my hand but lets go—I tell him to—at midnight I leave his house
and vomit him in the parking lot: in the literature of birds: there is a migration
west of winter—and Gays just want to have fun! In the parking lot I wonder if I’ve stopped
looking if I will and what happens after—the moon’s doomlight sharpening—
but not crescent, not quite.
