You call them pecs. I call them
nipples, sometimes, when I am fully undressed
and unable to divide
six by sex, nine by which one is mine
and which one are yours.
You know what? I never told you this
but I like it when I’m on all fours
searching for my ring, of course;
what did you think I meant?
It must have dropped off in the darkness, as you spent
yourself into me, and you, and the world:
gymbros always need to look good for the girls
and the boys, of course, more for the latter.
Who are you kidding when you say you look dapper
for her, when it’s me you’re hiding behind?
For her, when it’s the pictures of me that you rewind
for yourself, and your pleasure;
for her when it’s me you’ve been looking for, to measure
just how long your whole life
has been found wanting and desiring.
Benchpressing and deepdiving
into the lines between belly and penis and mine;
into the places where the fur lines the spaces of time.
In the wind, the trees begin to sing.
In the distance, the Dreamtiger finds his ring.
Someone wakes up, and someone else survives.
Someone’s fingers walk across the greatest divide:
you, and the image of yourself,
and also how you smell,
when you grunt, and sit up, and chin up, and barbell:
Look up and keep your head up, so that no one can tell.