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poets don’t have gender
    just faint words embossed on their flesh
            like secondary sexual characteristics,
a many-years-old growth of impressions       
    which is never fully expressed,
shave it off or leave it for its charm?
bearded Hemingway hunts down his death –
a lazy lioness in a broken trajectory of flight
pounces on him swiftly and heavily
    like tropical rain after a long drought,
how long did he have to wait for her
            hidden, craving,
feeding the mosquitoes of routine with his own blood?!
after all, who has to wait for whom
    in this unwritten code of existence
                who is hunting whom?
poets don’t have gender
        solitude’s hermaphrodites
incomprehensibly wanting every time the other the Other,
in torture giving birth to only themselves
                which are repeated,
а repetition of а repetition
            repeat please
                а repetition of а repetition,
how does one escape these hula-hoops of bodies?
reconciling these differences within oneself
                smoothing genitalia,
everything will go smoothly, Hemingway
                without any snags,
the last boundaries of self-identification are crossed,
Gordian knots of mutual obligations are hewn,       
Sisyphus’ stone of life is pushed from the summit,
genius doesn’t have gender
            just a throat raw from shouting
                between the legs