He tongues scolding bathwater until it turns his stomach
into a thousand allegorical sunsets -

eyes dim closed
exhaling the light.

His walk has always been
wobbly, misshapen, his
fragrant skull-bones often
misrepresented by the curve
of his body. A spine, spinning
diverting howls,

his mask is ever-handsome,
latent, often

huffing grey footprints
on my unused poetry.

A marksmen in the presence
of lazy afternoon naps,

and he stretches himself beside me;
vertical exterior (exhaling
the unspoken language, light-weight,
and effervescent)

I peck his cheek with my long lips,
wait -

he sleeps.