In the foremost moment,
You chuck in happy in the form of balmy,
The same way you look at an apple. 
Malus and malady, pulp and plague,
Metamorphosing your lips, your cheeks,
Everything other than your mind,
Looming to first kill – primavera.
Every assassination, straight or gay,
Is a little kill at best or worst.

For the gay man, the metaphor is simple,
Either you are a towed vehicle
Or the towing truck. Still you look at cars
That crash in plain missionary,
And gloat to your people, the happy type,
How beautiful it is to be towed,
To move your momentum in one direction,
To learn that synchrony is beauty,
And the grunt is the beast and in you and him,
There is a fairy tale, gaining form.

To be towed is beautiful, even at its least,
Just how stiff my cord becomes, without even seeing
The face of my lover. This privilege
I hear, makes the tow-truck glow
From chin to hairline. Austerity is how
Little we need to salvage, to be bedfellows,
How little it takes to stretch the cord
And tie the truck. How breathtaking it is,
To be dazzled by two cheeky hemispheres
And be drawn to the line of the equator,
In that silly phenomenon
That the meteorologists call,
The Coriolis Effect.

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