Well, there's three more.
This is a sort of little thing I wrote last year.
It's called, "For Alex."
He was one of the New York poets.
His last comment on a poem I wrote was--
Well, for those of you who like Florence's poetry,
I find this one really dull.
He wasn't talking about this poem.
But I did him a greater service, I think, than he did me.
Anyway.
"For Alex, five years old."
Your penis, a snail's head, sagging in my hand,
gives everything and nothing at the same time.
The veins in it are many roads that end in the middle.
Don't cry.