The taloned boy wonders—
you may feel things, urges—
who will ever want to hold his hand.

The fanged, the tusked,
the razor-horned sense the sadness that will come—
this is natural—with learning to rein in their lips.

You may have dreams—
and they do, in their dreams
they are naked and shadow-blued

in front of a mirror—this happens to
everyone—trying on different shapes,
their reflection shaking its head no,

the body
a destination
distanced by want.