#101

It was a novel day. The son of Bolinbroke entered as Stephen (the flower of youth and all that) while Jack leered and leched from his post at the bar. All this from a bench in Rittenhouse - on which I was joined by two men in business attire. "Beautiful day," the one closest offered, the tiny creases at the corner of his eyes burrowing deeper as he smiled. Afterwards, I bought not briefen but briefs: white with a watermelon-colored waist, and red with a band of white.

At the gym, my legs strained in sharp pyramids. There were men. Call them Tom, call them Dick. Call them Harry. Not a woman to be seen. But my reflection (like a dark Narcissus) in every glass storefront from 5th to 7th. It's a lush, verdant weekday. Everything's deserving of kisses.

My body, I wrote some time ago here, abridges its praises. Never too much to stomach, but too little to have on my chest. I wear socks, I wear t-shirts. Hands sometimes come from unexpected places to correct my form. And what is heart rises and beats, but not to the rhythms I would have it. Difference, distance, translation: I need correspondence.