the first thing I’ll do is return to Ringer’s circle
and imagine you there,
“a lad who didn’t die.”
And you will never die
you will never be 30, never be grown,
you will always be covered in tiny hieroglyphs, strange
tiny pictures drawn in blue and red ink lines.
Beautiful, you spit into the fire,
why did you look up to me? I only ever looked across at you,
holding cups of coffee.
I wish I had enough eyes
to meet your stare with confidence.
In a daydream,
a flag emblazoned with every color
hangs boldly in my window.
A filter for your boundless
ill will, I stare at
the back of your neck
for practice. I’ll meet you
under the ice.
I’m convinced that you could take any form,
the real, the imagined, the physical, the spiritual.
With a voice I’ve never heard and a face I’ve never seen:
indelibly solid, you are ice
made tangible from water.
Your clear green …
all I ever do is evaporate.
I wish you were on the inside
of my sparkling, that something
even I can’t crawl into.
You make me so nervous and I want to
solidify in the snow.
why did you look up to me? I only ever looked across at you
2018 Window Gallery solo exhibition at UrbanGlass in Brooklyn, NY
Image Credit: Gabriel Cosma