Flamingo stance

A place in the sun to see him. Leaning over, 
I water one blue and improbable person.

Pixels have smelted his eyes to lumps
I can't tell how long he's floundered under 
the rubbish of indoor summers. 

Little weeds insinuate themselves around his bones and
his armour-plate protects a speckled-grey stone. 

I pick and pry like a tired archaeologist
through veins and iron, detailing the 
enamel hard-wiring he operates with. 

Handed a plate of artichoke he
ingests indifference down a broken throat.
Tight lipped. 
Neatly dodges my every silence, that hermit. 

Framed opposite, a basketwork of questions 
in muddy rumours, concrete concentration
I wish you could see me here, like this. 


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