Or He was a Woman, or Bag of Numbers, or Thinking Prow...
Perhaps he was a dog, snout shoved glove-like into old fish.
Or perhaps he was a four-stringer propped up on a tavern stage.
The bottom end. A clean, dirty man. Or goat. Or cough-matrix.
Or perhaps he was a syntax, brackets around his conventions,
parenthetical, a fuckhead bibliographing himself in lovers.
Or perhaps he was edible, and the one, eerie carnivore,
or wilting over toast, a limp cheese sheet
sweating from warmth in a distinguishable sloppiness.
Or perhaps he was an old shack, or a lime-sour pig,
or a picket-beaked gobbler, or not,
and perhaps his days merely fell like louse-tracks
through an old scalp's grungy ravines.
Perhaps he was appealing; sterile or plumbed or richly decayed,
but still lusciously present as a chicken butcher, firework,
or some a blanket-sniffing bee from the hot, short grass.
He did not know, nor would he ever;
when he lived was who he was,
and the hum of uncertainty