shoulders | Golden Star Poetry

DISCOBOLUS

he rakes leaves with his chest like statues might in a Discobolus.

he would always cast down his eye on everything.

he had led a small-ish life so far, but consequentially,

or, because of it actually, he could hold onto a tiger and not bear down at all.

he whispered a fervent prayer and was surprised when his voice was engulfed

into a pandemic-like sea of other voices; this one nodding, that one cautiously still.

but, musing,

as any

girl would,

I can

only remember,

of course,

the faint

pressing outline

of his

backbone protruding

from his

white collared

cotton shirt

and a

questioning neck,

leaning out

only to

ask a

pointless question.

Golden Star Poetry