Inside the coveralls, respectable Republican cloth coat, jeans and tee—
whatever— inside the skin, the expression, the intent—
worms burrow in the brain, behind the eyes—
striking sparks that could ignite the everlasting admission:
I want to—
What will happen when all barriers fall?
When I know you fails to deter?
When a smile precedes a kick instead of a handshake?
When a bullet solves every problem?
Will the young lover ask for the kiss?
Will the total stranger engage with a fist?
What is the difference between
what you are supposed to be
and what you are?
What is the difference between
what you think alone at night
and what you do when it counts?
How hungry are the worms,
and what is their progress?
