Take Polaroids of your tv screen while Lucas dances, black eyes, black hair, black turtleneck, lanky Lucas, while he dances, no tripod, no vertical hold, no pause, just you leaning sweet into Lucas. Make 1,000 copies on photo glossy, staple gun each glossy to a telephone pole every mile from here to New York City. Arrive breathless.
You may quibble, saying who is this Lucas, I don’t know him? I’ll say does it really matter, you know what I mean by black eyed boy, surely? The kind you slip into a diner with late, as you’re driving, and you’re covered with road? You’re stopping so you can see his hair in any kind of light but star? The kind of man takes you the long way? And you let him?