He stands with a sleeping spine,
a small and careful curve
that rounds itself like empty fingers from an unused palm.
Thighs cross at knees
and his shoulders angle - south-west, north-east,
a pointed compass
with confused vertebrae falling somewhere underneath.
Straight as a street,
laid in naked instead of asphalt,
he divides the mattress in equal triangles
and sleeps the morning's earliest light in two.
Hands fit into pockets
as they fit into hands,
knees straight as elbows,
the only horizontal lines are his belt,
and his collarbone,
the rest track sky to ground,
north to south
and straight as untangled yarn.
The back of the chair holds his head
and his feet (sandaled)
angle in sharp creases from the table
that holds both of our drinks.