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.
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.