he goes
swinging arms set on
leaning shoulders and
feet that climb pavement
every step
taking inches before miles before the span of her heart

infected with a childhood
an unfitting frame for
such words and
sometimes he feels sick,
at the size of his own hands
isthmus, island

sick at the foreignness of being
skin native to all the touches
but blood that tastes only enemies, shies away
she thinks how, how,
beautiful the white skin
light strains he looks at nothing, not her

dull eyes, white eyes,
never enough of night,
eyes
he will bend and glance
deep, to taste a bit of his own death
trapped in his clutched palm

annoyed,
she thinks what sweet bitter held hands
I don't want to be your friend
don't want to lose a friend

the child builds love where it doesn't belong, everywhere
stacking towers against God, unlearning,
the child fights, he fights
they resist and scratch and embrace

and he bends
his fingers