Men go blind. Eyelids curled like
sleeping beagles. Knives and wine

we put them down. Aloe on our wounds.
From the road the streetlight—our only light—
interrogates panes. Lets us move on.

Like the gal I nickname Eavie—
in adolescence easygoing, in
womanhood a night without its hunters—
the men who fail her feelingly.
She sits on my front porch flexing pink knees.

For the kisses we don’t share, the stars
I can no longer see—Pegasus, North; dippers
little & big, even those who don’t have
a tale; stars men didn’t once navigate—
they’re blinking like fireflies.


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