I thought it was the way his laugh reflected light like thin
coats of fire his smile
so radiant I swore I heard the songs of summer geese passing
through the northern
blue of his eyes it was only later through fears growing like
onions in the dark
that his laugh became another light another song dried to its
depths
a chrysalis that slipped free and fell dead to the ground
only later was it plain
he was a toad rising from some sunken swamp to devour his own
skin
until all that was left was a husk lying shriveled in a heap
of weeds only later
through the hush of going our separate ways when all I wanted
was to roll in the hot mud
of an overweight and degenerate grace longing for
obliteration was it plain
he was only the light the rains made talking in my sleep—and what they
spoke of
