the sparrow lifts the spent condom into the air

The police have been stopping
these gay, park-dark trysts
 
but beneath the branches, off
the path, the mulch is sharp-
 
scented. Strange passions
that let us flee into the rush
 
after the patrol car passes.
Imagine the nest built
 
of all our spent selves,
thin sheaths glistening
 
in daylight, grimed and lifted
into something else.
  

Practice

“I’m practically asexual.”
posted by Tyler Clementi on a website for men

 
Do you think it’s easy,
practicing not
to touch?
Subways, check-out lines,
even the passing
of change—
a thumb’s extravagant cushion,
fingernails like bird’s feet
skittering across the skin.
Try refusing it.
How the eyes must sink
and hold only the ground.