Better Than Okay, with Androgyny

As long as you’re not William F. Buckley,

whose disdain would sustain me now,

I will apologize when the air stops moving.

The newly saved pole-dance a million

sour excuses. Ambidextrous

fetish-finders pull their bows

across a century and call it music,

but who breaks my harp, what David

swings my stones.

An orchard is burning

but you avoided how such transactions

fuck with time. I don’t have anything

much—what useless fire is light,

what distant mobile mouthing.

Most excellent pre-op calls me Baby

in the bar when I offer her some ice

because I don’t have anything else.