What were the last days of your life
like? What were the several glowing sunsets like out on the boardwalk
where you tranced yourself to sleep
but not to sleep?
You remained awake,
taking in the salty air and your varied pasts.
The “struggles” surely. You remain
the young boy in my photograph.
Your cinched crotch attests to it.
I didn’t see it through the lens
until we both posed nude in Bill King’s atelier back in ’69.
A golden year for you.
The boy in you so
I didn’t think twice to look at you, au naturel.
I stopped counting long ago!
Your breasts remained so miniscule, so pointed, so succulent.
You could make me laugh,
and so I laughed. We held hands.
We held each other’s waist
to keep from slipping on the endless seamless,
like in some Blow-Up scene shot in several takes.
We simply pranced our way through those many captured moments,
as if air-borne but for an instant.
Whatever happened then, whatever happened to those photographs?