He sees her face in punctuation.
Seeks it never for it follows him in the pigeons wing,
muffled against sky and pavement.
In the comma’s hesitant black, in the irredeemable blot of the stop,
I crush your ears in my hand and throw them away,
Touch your knee cap fleetingly,
I like to hook my toes in the hollow under your knee
As hard as I can.
I tick your freckles off on betting slips, darking out white squares,
Pressing down the point.
I pierce the paper.
A Century of Photography: 1890
3 days ago