Visiting

when I come he is drawing patterns rough dancers in the dust with a crinkled fingertip the nail was rimmed with soft green and black paints it moves and scratches with a mad intensity I stand, waiting to be noticed watching those still creatures-- they watch me back their smudged faces are plaintive, wailing sorrowing I drop some tears out of respect. He picks them out of the dust dips his hands swan-graceful and those little gleaming tears get tinted dark while his nail is a little cleaner folds them in paper the colour of a dragonfly's back sealing them in envelopes with a poised tongue "Why are you here?" I came to get a picture off the floor. "You can't have any. I erase them." when I leave I feel like asking for my tears back then I forget