“Men in sleep aren’t boys, but aren’t

exactly men, either— they soften,

revert to animal,

curled-up beast […]

Not without violence, even now,

your hands clasp when brushed,

or seek out my haunch, my wrist, and hold

for a time, release with a soft grunt, affirm

that I’m here, or someone is.”
— From “The Merchant of the Picaresque,” a poem in Fair Copy by Rebecca Hazelton, reviewed at The Rumpus by Tory Adkisson.