Art
First light brushes through half-closed blinds,
illuminating the sculpture that lies aslant beside me.
His innocence is crafted in that strong,
stubble-less jaw. His legs are slender and tough,
the oak of an easel. His breath is slight,
like the casual flip of an artist’s page.
His skin is a flawless silk canvas:
he will deface it with his own white paint
soon. His mind awakens
from its frenetic, Escher-like somnambulism:
his lips, once magnetised together,
now lengthen into a smile, the kind that electrifies the air
with its boldness. “Darling,
light me a cigarette, would you?”
