Brandon A Wyant

—Then we die.
I hang my head, I do.
A German woman,
nameless even when I see her
                        but I'd eat
and walk, sleep and swim in her
italienische Welt of mid-century
              (Ginsberg has Corso eating grapes in Paris,
              head turned, posed or not; et puis nous sommes
              Kerouac and Cassaday mugging dans la village Est—)
And then the world of Bruce Weber—
but I'd be homosexual;
the women would be in forms of undress, beautiful
and I'd have no reason to touch them
though—turn the page,
we are laying
pubis to same, nipple to same,
legs amongst each other
and arms,
a different anatomy—
                                          so there's home
                                          inside a woman, or hope.
I've always wanted
to be photographed in Myrtle Beach.
Night, a lawn chair, in an open shirt,
bonfire with a woman over me
faces cropped from the scene,
my fingers up the outsides
                                                   of her thighs
                                                   and admirers.


I typed up some stuff about physics, biopoetics, marketing strategies and art history. Then it occurred to me that the most important thing about the poem is the image at the end. At the time I wrote the poem, that's all I was trying to get to.