My lovers grow feathers in the first scene.
My lovers grow wings. Four taloned toes on their feet.
Oh precious sweaters, white tile. Goodbye!
we call from up high, beating
the birds down south for winter, wringing
water from the clouds, rolling

along. Cast me a shepherd in my next role.
Give me bucolic. Lonesome green. Scene
after scene shearing and suckling a ring
of hairy legs, a sextet of knees, a feat
of dramaturgy to which audiences will beat
off in their seats, bathed in bi-

sexual lighting. Neon signs say BYE BYE
prudish cinephiles. BYE BYE jump scares. Roll
out the memory foam: only quasi-clichés in this beat
sheet, only Holiday Inn linen. Come see
the made-for-TV movie feat.
me on one knee with a ring

light and engagement ring
I don’t need layaway to buy.
In this I am so effete
I swish and lisp the lead role
the director saying Again, but next scene
play it gayer. I beat

my chest. I mewl, I bleat.
I arm myself with stones and rings
and nothing else. To be nude is to be seen
naked by others which is why I ask my bi-
pedal friends to hold the camera. Role
play, I mean. Angles, I mean. I can’t deny my feet

get the boys going, my Only Fans widely fêted.
Tried to fire me for that, but I beat
the case. Refused to play the role
of criminal. I’m judge, jury, and a ring
of ex-pirates. I said goodbye
to that life, but I do miss the scenery.

Grass, muddy footprints. A cardboard scene.
A basket of red paper beets. It’s time to go home, goodbye,
roll credits. The phone in the lobby, pick it up when you hear the ring.