Exponentia Liber

is it the stretching of your porcelain neck

tilting towards the empty skies

that your fingertips graze

the air and outer lines

of the concrete stars

voice so gravely

a hearty laugh

"Bacalla"

Italian mustache

and silver white hair

with a heart on his sleeve

his muscles underneath

the delicate and tanned veiny skin

strength greater than the

blacken fears

one fear

a grouch; looks grumpy

from loosen memories

that will be

treasured

Upon a gravestone

To someone who

I will eventually

Let go