His Silence, Damn

He still wears the glass skin of childhood
so smooth to the touch.
Under his hands, the stones turn to mirrors,
his eyes are knives.

Who froze the ground to his feet?
Who locked his mouth into an horizon?
Why does the sun set when we touch?

I look for the lines between silences,
he looks only for the silences.

Cram truth under his tongue.
Open him as if for surgery.
Let the red knife love slide in,
and then just twist it,
a little!

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