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.