The bruises over my metacarpals were narcissus heads
staring into the pond of the sky when he held my hand tight
against his friend’s bulb. I didn’t feel shadows move
or hear any sweet-wrapper whispers
that could have been an audience.
The bruises over my metacarpals were narcissus heads
staring into the pond of the sky when he held my hand tight
against his friend’s bulb. I didn’t feel shadows move
or hear any sweet-wrapper whispers
that could have been an audience.