The back and forth of a compulsive binary
is the soul of every feeling, and the poetry
half-thought and half-uttered by every human soul.
The poets merely finish the poems which are half-formed
in everyone’s mind. You thought—
and the author pushed it to “a kiss”
as more generations of readers got sexual urges
communicated to them en masse
until, a little older, you said whoa this is not an emergency I’ll pass.
A young man hears himself saying to himself,
“she has a nice ass,”
and the moment he’s half-aware and half-ashamed,
poetry is born. It is sincere and not sincere.
It is the slavery of binary. You knew this, right?