by Terrance Hayes

They are like those crazy women

who tore Orpheus

when he refused to sing，

these men grinding

in the strobe black lights

of Pegasus. All shadow sound.

I'm just here for the music，

I tell the man who asks me

to the floor. But I have held

a boy on my back before.

Curtis I used to leap

barefoot into the creek^{1； dance}

among maggots piss，

beer bottles tadpoles²

slippery as sperm^3；

we used to pull off our shirts，

slap music into our skin.

He wouldn't know me now

at the edge of these lovers' gyre，

glitter steam， fire，

bodies blurred^{4 sexless}

by the music's spinning light.

A young man slips his thumb

into the mouth of an old one，

I am not that far away.

The whole scene raw delicate

as Curtis's foot gashed⁵

on a sunken bottle shard^6.

They press hip^{7 to hip，}

each breathless as a boy

carrying a friend on his back.

The foot swelling^{8 green}

as the sewage in that creek.

We never went back.

But I remember his weight

better than I remember

my first kiss.

These men know something

I used to know.

How could I not find them

beautiful， the way they pe spill

into each other，

the way the dance floor

takes them，

wet holy in its mouth.