witches to be hunted, angels

to be ripped, I had you

down as a simple man

but not one who regrets

—the trap of desire

snaps:

a mutilating difference

working hands know

calloused fingers feel better

you don’t read

poetry, you dress in leather

I want your jet black

jacket and your body, I want

justice more than anything I want

your honesty untainted

in a ponytail

I want to share your manliness

this smoky laugh, insouciant

patois and »Parlez-vous

Pommes Frîtes«

when the trap of

desire snaps

an ordinary angel waiting

to be ripped