His words are
the familiar
things
held safe
as lines I hang on
silent all the while
I think
strings
I think, sinews of his arms
tendons
strung over obsessive limbs
fibres of soft hair on his arms catching
shine of yellow light
in his attending eyes
joints hinging
and the long windows giving
upon brilliance of shaped clouds
upon the aqua windowed at his back
what color are his eyes?
and all the doors on their hinges wailing
semicircular wide
wailing on their hinges
The locks are sprung..
Swung wide on their hinges all the doors stand open.
I cannot tell the color of his eyes.