The Culture of Near Miss

Because all energy went into making him breathe
dawn was not noticeable

though on the beach it was bigger than anywhere
else, awakened stars stowing away in sand,

low-tide sparkle of a cosmos the sea will take away,
subtraction is basic, the boy's body when movement

is subtracted becomes less, there is hardly any boy
left, his color drains invisibly; it leaves him

to arrive nowhere, his chest becomes a sunken basket
for white peaches (out of season)

through what he's lost, not what he's gained.

::

I loved Jerdy
and if my name's not here,
he won't know it was ever true
love, not that he hasn't been loved
by others

also not present, subtracted from the picture,
and even if he has been loved by others
perhaps he won't be again

unless someone falls for a picture;
that has been done (someone I know fell
for a picture of Cindy Song).

Loving Jerdy now is to love him
in the way that makes most museums mean more
to me, he's not to be touched, ideally

he's to be observed in silence, perhaps
photographed, probably without flash, 
and if he's not stolen,

insulting the injury of his having been stolen from,
he can be returned to, sometimes only his outline

while he's on loan and his permanent space
has a chance to discolor.

He travels much more this way.
This way, it's not necessary for Jerdy to breathe.

He hangs.                                    The museum is closed

on Friday                                     open on Sundays.

His arms rest                              on nails.                
   
He seems as wide                      as his length.

Crowds gather.                          On the beach

his breath fell out of him like stars

When he's on loan                    a pale cross is left behind

and he couldn't even see or touch the sky.

Copyright Credit: “The Culture of Near Miss” from Tokyo Butter by Thylias Moss. Reprinted by permission of Persea Books.