markbousfield

SULLEN
He is the aroma of the street,
a man with blonde locks like chilled amber,
each strand strangles the drawn lines of his face,
freyed cotton spills from the worn knees of his grey slacks,
receding calmly his hairline broods with Nordic glower,
His eyes like flowers,
purple,
blue,
alive with ice in the power of the glacier.

Cavity's held breath shimmers incandescent azure in the haze before exhalation,
His brustling mane brushed behind cloven ears,
pricked like his prick at all that pass,
Man. Woman. Child.
The aroma of the street Rose and rested upon my lips
as though I would wilt in the very presecnce of it's passing.