poem, poetry

wormhole

i dreamed we worked together
to put an inchworm into the head of your penis
i held the wriggling body still
and you held your self open

dad, i said, how long have you been into holes?
as you winced i seemed to too

finally, we sighed, as the last of the little green tail skulked into you
like, what lead you to them, do you know?

he explained, the hole is often not,
the center of things, it’s more the way the sidewalk of me
seems to 
end in women and
whats left of me gets right


reassured, i dressed you

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