Dutch

And he is the tall one
with tight blonde curls
and the smile of a morning sky.

His Dutch hands made to hold guitars
and smoke tobacco—
his sound and rhythm.

It is all a bloody fervor;
there are the stains.
His heels cracked with dirt.

Yet this is bodily,
the way we swiftly enter and exit a simple happiness
as I feel the soft sandpaper of his newly shaven head.

This simplicity addresses my labors
with a faithful lack of worry,
tells me these shadows aren’t so dark.

I fear there is no road for me to address his shadows
or wash his feet,
to wipe out memories of edges tread
and black holes of leaving.

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