Trans/lucency

These days, freedom

means: no shame.

What she calls

your cock rises

at its name, invisible

as wind moving

what it touches—

you are moved

by this. The little music

it makes through the leaves

to reach her. In wildness,

your privacies turn

outward; in the purple night

you row to her. Quiet

as an oar in still water,

then defiant as hard rock.

You don’t want to be

a man’s hard question—

just the shovel of its asking.