Tell me what you sell.
Tell me about your cloudy
days, your sympathies,
the irrational joy of your march.
Tell me how mornings
crash the musical nights
of the furtive love
between warm woods
of your legs. Tell me
how you live in the margins
pretending, and I touch you,
I believe in you.
Tell me how you watercolor
your evenings with regret
on the open night
of your death.
How you allow shooters
to gun down children in class.
Tell me if you cry in secret.