He takes his last breath
for the night. The music
from exhaust engines
tire themselves out. Inside,
petty advisors punch their
timesheets, setting aside
solicitations for flowcharts
and returning to their ever
shrinking dormitories.

Good. Now we can begin,
the sugarplums declare.
(or are they centrefolds?)

It begins and ends like
every other cycle, not
that consistency matters
at all. Swivel, sway and
trot, or so is often thought.
Troops of the troupe
clean up nicely without
noise, nor is assembly
required. Soon enough,
the stage is ready.

A very handsome entity
(perhaps) pirouettes. No
matter if the platform
dissolves, for the performer
had rehearsed it between
routines. Now how about
the audience? Has the lone
ticket been sold? And the
theatre, well-unlit?

Yes. The prelude—or truth
be told—distraction bows
itself out. Stagehands,
raise them curtains up!

Eyes have no interest
in foreplay. What is in
play—skydiving?
Wakeboarding? Nudes
to the beholder?
—can only be
temporary. No actor
overstays their place.
Always, an unannounced
but not unexplainable
cameo, a kindred
spirit seeking presence
in the now, only serves
a sense of urgency,
of misplaced longing.

And then,
you wake up.

red lull doze loose slip rush touch
web play warm pulse stretch flow wet
jolt
        weak cold wake clam wash clear
trod tense tight hold heave help
        sprain kin strain keep
        shut gross press pore
                           wings whiff wade win

clue ask nod green
        joust laugh jump red

I.
    don’t.
        don’t cross out yourself. is
          what he’ll say if
           the stars actually aligned
         and the corridors emptied
       like magic,

         he dreamt
        of a place
          where fairies weren’t female
         or prancing like he did
        in his hard hat
       a steel wall from words
      better left unsaid


II.
     skin.
       upon skin upon skin
         upon fragrant how’s and wow’s.
    he never cared much until
      a glance, a look,
         a stare for far too long,
   slow burn in his heart
  while his cheeks
         red
  handed from a look in return.

    a wink? a glare?
      anything at all?
   the other he stares
  at the soul who dares
    not to reveal
   to unconceal
       a tender yearning
             of minds too raw
              to compute the
     facts, but also,
     the shared values.


III.
      deft.
          that’s what it’s called,
        in the dark and
         in the calm.
    vigourously,
            scrunched up in a
      kaleidoscope   of
                                   dreams,
                     lapping it
                                up
                           ­       sooner
     than he almoste̶d̶ wanted.
          blame the other he,
              his “other he”.


IV.

Time passes.
Fact or fiction,
question or conviction?
No one locks his heart away,
not his hands,
not his arms,
and not even his mind.

His mouth does all the talking,
keeping mum on what
    the heart dares to
but siding with dad
    when time takes its bow.


V.

Can I say something?
    Forget him.
            Or her and him.
As light comes
        to truth tells,
    what do I own,
          if not these takes
            on a single story
              or married multiverse

         or divorced demise?
Stars tell no lies
         At least in La La Land.
    If one could only dream
   that I had never
  deftly —


VI.
fullness,
            clearing of the breeze
          the gentle clutter of nothingness
                        done right by
                                  the slate.
        no one has
             depleted
          no cell has
                 raised its hand
if only equilibrium was truly consistent
                                  don’t we all
                                    
                               don’t it all
                                  
                         — don’t you?

I wish I could
make a bouquet
out of words
left unused

Mama always said
not to waste food
well
why not words:

the unit circle
The Boy with
// W47 “The Boy //