what darcy doesn’t know                                                                                   
                                                                                                                       
he lacks the kind of 21st century malice that deadens the flesh
but not the static sense of turmoil
that explodes and rests all at once without moving a single nerve

he has been conditioned too long to be suffering-oriented
the proof that any masculinity is a feigned one
or not
that beauty is understatement and wishful thinking
that man is an embroiled piece of soft tissue
draped on skin, good boredom and good theatrics
and that thirty four years is a long time

enough to mold and dry
to set in stone
and scar invisibly

a masculinity so ancient
an absence of urges so well trained it’s become instinctive
an existence not necessarily troubled or troubling
one that is without trying

he has seen a subtitled movie once but can’t remember its title
he may not be able to comprehend poetry
or photo album hesitation
because he sees the world as factual
and unwounded
fair even

and he has promptly learned not to drop blood along the way

not to wish, not to wander
but to stay, and build, and copy
and to keep adding more paint to already painted walls
the same tones, and colors, and hues
of the effortless tedium that holds the world together
and convinces it of its actuality

he finds rejoicing in this cyclic masculinity that continues the species
holds doors, browses newspapers and recycles the air

towels with initials
in case you forget who you were

he creates dichotomy out of oblivion
gives out validity, perhaps fuel
like black needing white to be aware of blackness
proud of it
perhaps watched, perhaps wanted

and he may not even be too afraid of femininity
or completely unaware of unabashed father figure replacement

the kind of man who shovels snow, initiates sex, fathoms protection
and listens