When we gathered there,
the hushed, innate spirit stirred.
It awoke, it stymied us,
our compulsive, selfish souls.
Silenced we were, but restless,
like stowaways clustered shut.
In our nocturnal circle,
A creamy ring stain on wood,
Aspiring novelist and amateur poet and op-ed writer on gay/queer/GSM topics. CA —> MN —> ? Stick around if I haven’t bored you yet.