"What's That?".

 Not a wad or pearly spurt, not a sprinkling of milky seed or a
filmy glaze,
 but something like a shard of astral matter suspended in outer space, a
speck dividing
emptiness from emptiness, wedge-headed, streaking through the sky, its
tail shedding
chunks of icy gas too small to see--, and if I hadn't asked how
would I have known
that framed above her desk was a photo, of her former boyfriend's
sperm,
magnified by an electron microscope, a single furious specimen escaped
from its ejaculate.