It surprised me,
your body responding to mine
like birdsong.

Seven years ago.
It was summer,
and you were alive.

A flint blade,
your drunk tongue,
it skinned me.
I only knew your first name.

I only knew your first name;
it skinned me.
Your drunk tongue,
a flint blade.

And you were alive:
it was summer
seven years ago.

Like birdsong,
your body responded to mine.
It surprised me,


Kostya Tsolákis reads Patrick