and as you finish your cigarette

thinking god when is something finally

going to happen in this town

where even your exhaled smoke

seems to cling to the still air

 

his mossy hand is already gripping

the chair opposite and you nod

for him to sit. What covers his body

and face is a thick green layer

of dry grass. Is this

 

an art thing? You ask. He shrugs,

rustling like the air inside a conch.

Nobody else is making a fuss,

so you don’t. There’s so much grass

you can’t see any skin, only

 

the mushroomy whites surrounding

the dark bark-brown of his eyes

and, when he yawns, the delicate,

intimate kittenpaw pink

of his wet mouth. He leans in,

 

palms flat on the table. They’ve done

an excellent job, you think:

you really can’t see any skin at all.

The smell is dead leaves, snails,

sweet tree sap. I get a thrill,

 

he whispers, from chasing people.

Leans back, two grainy brown handprints

either side of your coffee cup.

He looks at you, blinks slowly.

You stand up. He stands up.