He sweeps. Simply. There is dust and settling, as on a surface. His shirt lifts and sighs, bares and bears. He might be called Sam or Kimanzi, Turuk or Salim. Or boy from then entering now. He smells like yesterday’s boy, now legal, still barred. In yesterday’s time he is never more than and barely. Glimpses from long-neglected blindspots. A sigh of perhaps. It could be told as a grand tragedy, or the whisper of barely touching bumpers.
I want to be haunted by profundity, not dropped calls on a tenuous line. Perhaps if I stand under a tree on a hillock conversations might be carried by wind and wave. Our pastoral now. I wait to call, fearing that leaves might fall, trees become cancerous. We wanted to believe multiplying cells would not enter us. Our intimacies would remain untouched.
To be holding.
It is easier to believe in the intimacy of phone lines—strings and cans extended infinitely from here to there, me to you. Now the particles feel thicker, our mud-like communications, the babble and press of other waves, the potential for muteness—lip-reading in an age of text messages.
Habit without grace, like the half-limping men I once thought embodied desirability. Arthritic masculinities. I thought about the sensuality of rubbing. New fantasies in old wounds. Still. We rub along, tomorrow’s textures green to the touch, and if we rush fractures might happen, splits along uneven seams. One must be properly dry. As though prepared.
Men with longings sit under flowering trees to receive pollen blessings. Thus they become budded and garlanded. On festival days, we gather around and wait for them to burst open, to seed us. This is how it has been from generation to generation. It is why we are the seeded ones.
To remain open.
Away from the clusters, pollen hovers, still dreaming of honeybee kisses. It might fall on uneven bristles, achieve flights undreamed of by coy winds. Petals gossip about the quality of light and honeybee kisses. One might envy dust-laced bristles the habit of settling.