– for Thierry.

Here you are, back from gender traps
back from stereotyped edens
with Adam’s broken rib and an old viper
calling at night for no reason.
You fix your chin on your fists,
and watch days volatilize as gasoline.
There’s no sky here,
just Brighton Pier’s countless bones
in blue backlight.
The wind is gone, birds anchored.
The sun keeps touching the boy
who never kissed darker lips than yours,
but he never returns
– that yellow eye
only warms the stone.
No need for another What is wrong.
What went wrong. What the hell.
You shake the dust off your feet
and locate home inside your elbow,
in a vein full of crystals.
Such a perfect exile.
No geography, no maps,
no roads, no bridges
to cross anymore.
Music floats in your arteries,
silted with violet and silver sparks
showing the way,
whispering your name, your name.
No one knows if you will come back.
Where you live, letters never arrive.
I listen to your voice at dawn,
your new language is unknown.
In the sand I lie with the loss of you,
I repeat these words you said,
about sad sex, gay porn and guilt
like a ditty.
Some days your laugh comes
to me, unchanged.
The stars get closer,
clear flashes of proud light,
roofs glitter, without shadows.
Brighton Pier’s skeleton has a golden heart,
a queer fish, beating fast in your chest.
I see it every night,
flickering on my cigarette
red, electric,
spilling its burning flesh.
Life swings here, impatient,
waiting for a puff.