the destroyer > text > Dan Pinkerton
Begoggled, agog, we viewed the eclipse.
Thereafter we chose to engage primarily in seasonal relations.
Summer would become a policing of flesh, a bodily quarantine.
In wintertime we would wear cowls and assume a vast muteness.
This worked for awhile, until the spendthrift islands.
You chose to skin dive, something uncharacteristic, a fledgling rupture.
Your two-piece made you venus flytrapesque.
Still, you viewed near-nudity as something vestigial.
I knew the eclipse had fried your wiring.
Under an awning I bought a seashell from among a plentitude of seashells.
A boy on a minibike snatched the seashell, holding it loftily, lathered in exhaust.
The seashell was his trophy.
Mine was a literal nameplated trophy, lost in transit.
Yours was the eclipse, or the skin diving, or the thought that no man is a trophy.
You of course were away by then, your carnivorous leaves peppered with suitors.