The concrete beneath, the wall against my back. Inside, the crowd holds cigarettes, beer cans and money; now finished with paintbrushes, legal pads and arc welders. Fingers make guitar strings vibrate. Lips wait to touch things.
We are outside.
The hair of yours I see and imagine; the lilies and bones of your being. Those men in the park look for veins, push needles into skin.
I wish, wish, wish, wanting to be a broken quill pen held by the petit creature that you are.