The patient hunter gets the gay
way to do things, the homosexual housing
that we build every day:
a stealthsuit made of spray paint,
a pathfinding expedition made of clay.
Put the muzzle back in its sheath,
and colour every part of the world gray.
If they find out who you are, you win:
and that’s not something that will allow you to stay
relevant, to stay unassailably prevalent
across all the realms and places heaven sent
you to spread the greater good, the one that prepared you
for nothing. For no one. For no form of Lent
as penitential as this one, no ash
as cursed as that that has lain for so long under the sun.
Pretend that your flower has never seen the light of day.
Pretend that this is a troop transport
made of the quietest prayers and revenge, the songs that may
come back to haunt them who took it away—
Took what?
A sense of the empire where they once held sway.
And take heart:
no one beautiful is ever born to be
predator or prey.