we pick eagerly though sticks of liquorice
wishing we knew such delicate design
as the nose of a beautiful boy.
had i known or you known that we would be here
now, in the now
watching carefully each other’s face
incase at any moment mine might disappear,
worth less than gold to the roots of the cinnamon tree.
your face is a hole in the sky
your face is a tear in the fabric of being
your face is the answer to Sartre’s philosophical study of suicide
your face is no answer at all but I like the shadow your perfect
nose casts and the pallor of your cheeks in the blue-ish half-light of September.
