Cantaloupe

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
Shunted.

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.

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