XLIV. PHOTOGRAPHS: THE OLD DAYS

It is a photograph of a man’s naked back, long and bluish.

 

Herakles standing at the window staring out on the dark before dawn.

 

When they made love

 

Geryon liked to touch in slow succession each of the bones of Herakles’ back

 

as it arched away from him into

 

who knows what dark dream of its own, running both hands all the way down

 

from the base of the neck

 

to the end of the spine which he can cause to shiver like a root in the rain.

 

Herakles makes

 

a low sound and moves his head on the pillow, slowly opens his eyes.

 

He starts.

 

Geryon what’s wrong? Jesus I hate it when you cry. What is it?

 

Geryon thinks hard.

 

I once loved you, now I don’t know you at all. He does not say this.

 

I was thinking about time—he gropes—

 

you know how apart people are in time together and apart at the same time—stops.

 

Herakles wipes tears from Geryon’s face

 

with one hand. Can’t you ever just fuck and not think? Herakles gets out of bed

 

and goes into the bathroom.

 

Then he comes back and stands at the window a long while. By the time he returns

 

to the bed it is getting light.

 

Well Geryon just another Saturday morning me laughing and you crying,

 

he says as he climbs in.

 

Geryon watches him pull the blanket up to his chin. Just like the old days.

 

Just like the old days, Geryon says too.