Male Menopause Poem
How as to lean my non-eon on autumn’s roan
Undoing, to smile while the stymies crawl
All over me and the prismatic blindfold
Around my testicles creaks: guess this house
No longer knows which door I am. The window
We were, does it remember its view? You-or-I
Saw so little out there; what future: only
Snatches, catnaps of our nightmares yet to come.
Doorknobs worn to doornubs — grey stubble on
Gaunt armpits — lists like that litter this earth.
A lattice of graves greets me or is kind to me;
My hair plowed with parents, their protracted
Smoothings of some poor, tuckablanket bed.
As said each road I find in your face is fled.