Once the cloth was coarse to the fingers but long years wore the denim down till the fabric is soft as old parchment. I love to hug him in that jacket, and with our country at arms, to repaint the banner chipped enamel of his fingernails. But everyone says the zip fastens the wrong way,
that men’s nails must be blank. By the flame of the lighter I see his eyes are they wrong too? Is this glossy, cellophane picture-led media right that there is but one way to be whole?
He blows out, makes sparks catch his sorrows like a spider will a fly. In the orange butt I see his vitreous shimmer with water and fragility. The stratitions on his pupil’s like a spider’s yarn, his expression the smithereens of creation.
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