Pine Pitch

 

He's growing; I can see it

It's in the stories of his cheekbones,

the topography of his stubble

or maybe, the pores

on the back of his neck 

 

I remember 

when we used to sit

by fires burning

seeing them through

to penultimate throes

and talk about strengh

and power, and

things that didn't 

matter

 

The veneer of patience

over his tanned temple

Urging me to go on

but pleading to stop

 

I look for it now

when rarely he looks at me

but missed moments have crept between

his eyelids and turned the

laconic silences blue 

 

Sometimes I dream

about him;

eyes with their white intensity

turning me liquid flame

but then he turns his corded back;

leaves me to burn

 

I can see him, now

part of the shadows

Night's compatriot

Smile the streetlights

that never burnt out

 

He puts pine pitch to

the other, and we watch as 

they kiss; virile, turning the

sidewalk gold; kindling the

coke cans

to atomic bursts of purple