A visual dessert, says the host:
a bowl of flowers in water.
There’s a parallel history with
slight alterations, says the host:
a boy standing in the coral dust
who smells of dirty river.
Who thumb-shuts the eyes
of the dead?
Who finds someone
to love more than himself?
He will, says our host, in a
parallel history, his sun-kissed face,
his leonine hips, his body a siphon
for the light.