alias, a thirty-four-year-old boy.
there’s some kind of waiflike quality
in the straining blue of your eyes,
the midnight curl of your hair,
something soft beneath the hardness of your glare,
the upwardlookingness of your wonder.
vulnerable in the harsh afternoon sun,
shuffling meekly at your door in curiosity,
there’s a grate in your voice
that tells me you care.
untouched by pity,
bashfully smile as the knife flies from your hand,
swiping your hat up from the dusty soil.
wipe your mouth with the back of your hand,
and a brilliance like diamonds across your face.
you close your eyes in the twilight,
face reverent, tilted to the night air.
you keep your mystery
locked up in the secret glance
you throw at glamour,
the yearning toward the dangerous man,
the thoughtful stroking of your rough face,
the sadness in the careless toss of your head,
cigarette glowing in the dark,
alone, sat in the dust before the fence
watching all the people pass you by.
Pictures from http://bornewrong.tumblr.com/ and http://www.tvtalkin.com/bobdylan/1970-1979.htm.