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.