Gentleman

You are a september dawn wet with dew, weighing me down; dumb with breath and still virtue, a pause of arm hair, light-brown. A break in the red-cheeked fug - the trees of your knuckles shift but a second, enough to break my languid gaze, the lazy drift of eyelash and eyebrow, held for a milk-white moment - child to the magnet pull of tin from your crucifix, tang-mild and holy. I am humid from you - Let me teach you moisture. ------------------ Your breath-fug weighs down my skin. Turgid and red-cheeked child, you brush my arm when you reach forth for a book or pen. Gentle boy, your leaden crucifix goads me with your faith - pray breathe no more on me. Holy son you stir guilt in my glances; I lust to taint you better. I would press words to your side you had never felt gentler.