When your vocal codes
Turn from a piccolo to a tuba

And all you can do is to feel the weight
Of the descending testicles

And a little fertile spurt of hairs
In all the right places – even wrong

And you’re stuck making sense
Of this anarchy of little emotions

Making a cacophony, a racket inside
And you’re caught in heart currents

That stump you heavy, a jerk here and there
And a little device that wakes up in dreams

And wets your pajamas, and you start to
Wonder why excreta had turned cheesy

And this period passes with impunity
A little inebriated in hormones

And a lot less in control of all tangibility
Like the tall girl in a shawl

That makes your heart race. And you realize
At the end, you have come out of your cocoon

And beautiful wings will carry you now
To a gendered world, where nothing makes sense

And through fogs of infatuation, you find security
Of when rods and cones ensnare beauty to beholder

And trappings of fiber, inculcate a little desire
When head and heels lose their bearings

And make handstands. And one feeling
Approximates to the brink of a palpitating chamber

That only knows how to expand
To accommodate volume.