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.
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.