You pick the quivering
wishbone of my body:
it will not come
true. You are flicking through
the layers of my skin
as if I am
underneath. Click your tongue
on my breastbone. A boy
in love with his
body, with its longing
to go beyond bodies
I’m struck by our
evanescence: this light
withdrawing its support
from the Port Hills,
Cashmere’s film noir setting
an R.S.A. car-park.
