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Recorded for Poem-a-Day, June 1, 2018.
About this Poem 

“I was recently in a mall bookstore, and as I watched the men shift and avert their eyes in front of the porno mags, I remembered doing much the same thing in Florida, the desolation and excitement of trying to get a glimpse of something illicit and queer—and I felt an overwhelming sense of tenderness toward my younger self. The epigraph and, to some extent, formal structure of the poem come from Gunn's ‘Talbot Road.’”
—Randall Mann

Florida Again

                              I forgave myself for having had a youth.
					            —Thom Gunn

At the Fashion
Square mall,
of Waldenbooks,

I saw my younger self
the magazine rack.
Ripping out pages

of Blueboy,
tucking them 
in a Trapper

Turn back.
His eyes met mine,
and brittle,

a form
of gratitude
that a man
kept his stare.

Any man.
I half-smiled
some admission,
and though

he couldn’t
see it coming,
I excused him
his acid jeans;

two Swatch
two guards.
He, I,

must have been
sex was “safer”

on the mall
men’s room stall;

of saxophone
and PSAs.
did I

learn how to live
in 1991?

Spanish moss
I forgive him.

Copyright © 2018 by Randall Mann. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 1, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

Copyright © 2018 by Randall Mann. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 1, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

Randall Mann

Randall Mann

Randall Mann is the author of Proprietary (Persea Books, 2017) and Straight Razor (Persea Books, 2013). 

by this poet

        in memory of Reetika Vazirani (1962-2003) and Rachel Wetzsteon (1967-2009)
Sewanee, Tennessee. 
Summer of '96, I went there for 
booze and poetry and rest. 
I danced a little dance; 
I talked a little shop. 
I forgot a recent ghost.  

"Invitation to a Ghost" 
was my favorite poem in Tennessee
Jealousy.  Whispered weather reports.
The lure of the land so strong it prompts
gossip: we chatter like small birds
at the edge of the ocean gray, foaming.

Now sand under sand hides
the buried world, the one in which our fathers failed,
the palm frond a dangerous truth
they once believed, and touched.  Bloodied
          in memory of Seth Walsh, Justin Aaberg, Billy Lucas, and Tyler Clementi

There are those who suffer in plain sight,
there are those who suffer in private.
Nothing but secondhand details:
a last shower, a request for a pen, a tall red oak.

There are those who suffer in private.
The one in Tehachapi,