Poetry

If a gadget turns 
you on, and I cannot 
listen the voiceless 
music, how would 
we meet in parasynthesis? 
 
A parakeet lifts the long 
tail to climb on― 
the grill to watch the 
sweep of clouds, whistling 
past, when the world 
was mud-splattered. 
 
Take my hand and hold 
the queer. I was never me 
in the maddening crowd. 
I listen to only my body.