Aspiring Gay Poet
after Han Yongwun
I’m no Walt Whitman but in bed
I can write with my felt-tip pen
his penis his chin his lips,
and those dimples that hover above his eyelashes as he yawns.
When my roommates are away
and even the late hours hush,
I’m still too scared to share
the verse his tongue gave me
to the yawning stars.
I’m not an experienced poet, but I can write
his gaze, his laughter,
the way he sneaks across the campus lawn
before walking to my open window,
even each blade of grass
on the path that runs
the many steps from there to now.
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