They interrogate me: what makes you a true man?
but Fuck that noise, I’m history’s new man, 

a stop
the car to look out at the view man,

a metamorphic rock. Obsidian,
the stone that tried and failed to undo Man,

the caterpillar’s envy of its moth.
I’m a he-hymn. The tree you tried to hew. Man

is something undulating, caught between
the vessels in your gums, a thing you try to chew. Man

is not mathematical, it is a sound
like running water. I didn’t start there, but I grew man;

my mother never named me Zeke. It’s true: the flesh
is infinite but smaller so much smaller than the human.