Drowning Men

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They laughed because that is what cross-dressers do.
He is only their fool, in so many more ways than one.

A house by the church with a Jester's hat as a weathervane,
the intoxication of horse and cow.
He will sing to you from the bottom of the court
and bid the world to turn secretely in his heart.
Promise and mockery, the moon will not be cut from
his eyes.

A little known fact, fools can see girls who
clothe themselves in the skin of men.

It is not unfortunate that they are slain
by pale, heartless maids.
He has no use for the drumming of trash and wash
There is an abscence of corners in a land of illusions, or maybe,
only,
by the church.
He will sing to you and the softness will ring from the steeple
and collapse walls, break tides
dance unhinged by lovers.

Letters writ by warm brown hands,
they are not from him.

A little known fact, fools can see girls who
clothe themselves in the skin of desire.

You would think, mais non,
he does not have a cross.
He is not searching for the mistress who lies
on her back in a field of cold green clover, all
heaving chest and broken-open eyelids.
Enough is enough, to be a walking monologue.
Life and laughter, the water is still.

Listen and follow,
sometimes.
But do not take care.

A little known fact, fools can see girls who
walk behind the fat shadow of Orpheus.

He can press his eyes to the winding stone underworld
as many times as he wishes.
Observe, and he laughed.
But he is not a count
and chokes often on rich, cloying figs.
A reminder
that
he is a consumer of harvest's end.

And mostly, a fool.
Like a drowned man.





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