Sex is flourishing,
The narcissist within me squirms;
And the buttocks of my beloved
Shines like fire behind glass.
I dry the pages but the ink smears,
My lonely polygamist ideals
As glass devours sand,
The moment of a lingering thought
Proceeds out of the mouths
Of children and infants
And in the culmination
Of a generation bent
On transgender reidentification,
With only a momentary
Schism between reality and perception.