on the back
it's jay dee holding a switchblade,
ivan looking unsure and young,
some weird poem. angels and death.
lenny, dark, your pale twin
and richard with his steady eyes
and girlish mouth.
your name strikes the white
like a sea-scrawl,
ink inchworm
birdshit childspeak
glossy black,
like you were really there
and put your hand to it.

on the front,
it's you
with your frayed sleeves
and your hot chocolate mouth.
it's the way you wear your coat,
shrugged across your shoulder,
pony pin in the lapel.
your neck of milk
your iris hands
your black halo hair
your eyes never seeing so much.