long and crooked are his fingers
like his smile
they’ve been broken
his lips taste like iron from the blood that
drips from his nose and rusted roses bloom from
the lapels of his shirt
a cross-stitched madness that
ekes out the marble pattern of his
muscle
his hair is star-faded
dying at the ends where the follicles
spl it
but polished brass in
colour and curled
wood shavings
the scar upon his chest
pink and ridged
a chasm
it alludes to the cancer
they found it in his bones
and he has eyes the colour
of a moonset at dawn
the gold of the sun brushing its fingers
along the tops of the trees
it’s his skin
stretched taut a
spring loaded gun
over veins
arteries
his youth
warm to the
touch
but
fleeting
