Poetry

166. a silly poem

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His summer skin was my favorite canvas.
When the season we’d stretched
far beyond its limits surrendered,
I took a biro to draw
the only constellation I know
on his new body.

Am I a star yet?

Not a chance, I said.
They take too short a time to die.

What then?

I’d wanted to liken him to the sky,
but in the end I settled for the truth
instead of poetry.

You’re a silly boy in bed with
a silly girl who’s drawn
a silly picture on your arm.

That sounds like a silly poem, he teased.
You should write it down.

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