Respectfully, I must submit
that I like
the arc of a unicorn’s shank
as it breaks out of me, seeking 
a virgin to play with…

I like the smell of the new moon,
that I like that you do not know what it is,
that I could tell you anything about it
and it might as well be true…also

I like the hammerless revolvers of old,
and the many iterations of the Luger pistol,
and the romance of easy utility that attaches 
to such awkward little bundles of death.

I like you.  Really, I do.  Something
about the way your hair shines in barroom light.
Something about the floor under your shining head.

I like puppies and kittens with no backstory to them
except that they are puppies and kittens and 
they have hybrid vigor and no provenance.  I like them
to run and jump and bite and claw at me before sleeping.
That’s it.  I like to see them sleeping after such playful violence.

I like you, really I do.  As much as a derringer.
As much as a commando raid.  As much as sweeping 
hormones and such aside for a moment, for in truth
you make my balls feel bigger than supplements,

bigger than found poems, found money,
and found family.  (Not real family, though;
they keep shrinking me.)  I like how your voice
just went up in pitch and volume and anxiety

just for me.  I like just for me.
I like the way just for me feels.