carry the face
into your folds
mouth upon mouth
eye upon eye
down to each other
part on the grass (above
his cold wound fingers
place your hands
on his chest). When
he had no likeness he
chose an image in the
trace of your hands: in
an ocean air
when the moving moon lay
awave in rows of rows
of colour even then
even then he
could not look at that ocean
& now for you there
is no wonder left
in his silent stare
no the hardness creeps inward
from soft grass
to skin
to bone beneath
yes yours is the trace
in each skinly fold
you are the artist
who carved him old
this is your hand
that carries down his face
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