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.