When he reads me, I'm reading him,
each line along his brow,
the spaces between breaths.

He's a mystery.
Those eyes that shift from left to right
hide as much as they reveal.

Someone imagined him,
gave him grammar of demeanour,
used his pale skin as metaphor.

His form I'd say, is more or less
traditional, though marred by adjectival
spots he won't get rid of.

I give him marks at least
for genuine attention.
Low-shelved,
I wish I'd written him.