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Pointing the bone

You pick the quivering
wishbone of my body:
       it will not come
true. You are flicking through
the layers of my skin
       as if I am
underneath. Click your tongue
on my breastbone. A boy
       in love with his
body, with its longing
to go beyond bodies
       I’m struck by our
evanescence: this light
withdrawing its support
       from the Port Hills,
Cashmere’s film noir setting
an R.S.A. car-park.

July 1992, Cathedral Square, Christchurch


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