Washed in blood,
crusted over,
shivering, sleeping,
torn by adversarial wind,
breaking down
in salty weather…
I like this so much.
I like it too much, sing
an exaggerated song

of ennobling agony,

offering it as passport
into your circle — giving you

a chance to offer
a comforting word,
to dip into
your cache of care and try

to ease me.  Try to ease me
long enough to gloat about

how my pain disappeared under
your good hands and words. I live
for that. I live for how
distant I can get from you
even as you think I’ll have to stay,

will need to stay.  You forget

what I am, what I’ve been,
how a longing for storm
has gotten me this far,

how much I liked it out there,
how it made me

sing

before I ever knew you.

on bad days he hates waking up

to another round of
attempting to find peace
in each day’s casual violence.

in his sleep he can be

no longer sunken in otherness.
he reimagines himself as just
one of the guys,

or better than that, he becomes

a welcome part of a world
he makes, one he longs for,
one that lasts past dawn.

he hates waking up

most days. there are some days,
though, where hope intrudes
into his mild and hellish routine

for a few hours, sometimes;

long enough for him to think of otherness
as a gift again, the way he
has always wanted it to be seen

by those he calls others.