7 Grades of Desire

7 Grades of Desire

The slow digress—your adolescent eyes
from twenty algebra equations yesterday
put off—as strolling down the hall
a polar force of magnetism, navy leggings, pulls
them helpless from the (X+7). How I’d like
to help you solve this prepubescent problem that
perplexes you. Let's break it down and say
that X, in mathematic's purest objectivity

(and maybe this is all a hunch, 
but isn’t that the surest form of truth?) 

is equal to the clack and click of pebbles we collect
to try and plug the leaky dam, the subtle drip
we down-deep know. And closer to the source
of things are you than all the leathered, coarse
practitioners of parceling the this from that,
psychologists content to say that you are but
another sexual awakening. "And what,"
they claim, "the horny adolescent feels, and that
which flips the seeker through his manuscripts
or heaven’s thick expanse, must be understood
as flowers from a different seed, as fire from
a different heat."

I’d like to answer them, 
the ones content with explanations cold
and clean, laboratorial, that what if it 
is really all the same, desire?—and you, 
your glasses scrunched above your eyes,
gleaming with a thirst for that which isn’t yours,
are closer to the truth—or maybe more 
the posture needed for the truth—than those content
to sip their cooling herbal teas and postulate,

the steam now running through your veins,
a veil of sweat now dampening the cotton.

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