[for Hart Crane]

Allow me, love, to let go of your hands.
The way you walked to the rail, dropped your coat,
and jumped. Your love, like your poems, demands
so much, but I’m a lazy boy. You wrote
because of the pubic hairs I sent you.
You wrote that my dried cum was shaped like tears.
Then why? You could have called me your nephew,
your rent boy, your love. We could have spent years
making a life of liquor, barebacking
and odes work. Ink in my mouth. Tell me why
you did not wait. Once I’d have tried, grabbing
your hand, to hold you back – but no, goodbye,
let go, the void calls. Fall. It’s my belief
that I must let go with my cum called grief.