“Fag City” Where cement turns to gravel turns to dirt, and you grab a handful and praise the Earth, look for a run-down house with cooking supper and a subsequent mother. There’s a brightness lighting up the basement. A former flame I couldn’t not mention. He got away to the country, I called Miss Paisley lovely, called him lots of things, all the time, lost the signal—where’s the landline when you need it? When you need to say “I still sniff your blankets.” Fag city (fog city) we’re gonna get there baby. Come with me (fog city), I’m gonna get there someday if you’ll let me. But he won’t let me down. That last night, I put my glasses on. He biked over in those long johns, cut our hair off just to see his father’s reaction. The U-Haul already there, he said “Son, we’re moving to Nebraska.” And you’re about to head eastbound, and you’re looking at the train in the opposite direction. And all of a sudden one of you starts moving but you can’t tell who. Are we perpetually faking the feeling of motion?
Wes Leslie
Sexualit y
19