When you tell me to see a sex-therapist on the basis 

of my low sex-drive, I go out & inspect moss instead. 

I interrogate how much it needs out of another’s body. 

I go out & forget mine: eat a whole break-fast of cloud-

milk & sun-yolk & potatoes I pull right from the ground. 

I clean my plate. I float fat & happy on the silver 

river, contemplate weightlessness. I go & build myself 

a library. I don’t fill it with any books to educate you. 

Then I focus up. I grab my body back from the ether 

of neglect. I meditate on it: each individual part. 

Carpals to metatarsals. I learn how to love my clavicle. 

Under the surface of a mirror-pond, bluegills bicker 

with their boyfriends over more basic bullshit than identity.  

I wonder if their blue cheeks blush up red 

with anger. I wonder about classification based on body. 

I don’t use asexual because I don’t want to identify  

as anything-sexual. I want only to be called by my name.