nick

• tanned skin, mist in the sun, filmed with smoke. I sigh, inhaling
• I feel my shoe soften, blood flows into it, it grows warm, it becomes a skin.
• All this prodigal breeding. He stretched in the sun, I feel the ripple of muscles
• He’s only my flag. My semaphore. Body language.
• ·I have no rose  to toss, he has no lute. But it’s the same kind of hunger.
• They cannot be exchanged, one for the other.
• This is an acknowledgement that we are acting, for what can we do in such a set-up?
• I make of him an idol, a cardboard cut-out