Dream as Andrew Holleran looking at Robert Giard looking at Andrew Holleran

Artefact: Gelatin silver print of Andrew Holleran, taken by photographer Robert Giard. Size  20 x 16 inches. Part of the collection ‘Particular Voices: Portraits of Gay and Lesbian Writers’.
Into the frame
Emerging, silvered
Dark portal eyes
Neat moustache over that certain line
Head turned over that shoulder
Neck creasing
Old grey tee
Washed and washed
A humble place to fall inside
Warm pit
Freckled arm
Light hair 
Flung over in sleep
Catching you there
Passed out
Sunday afternoon
In a summer rental
Amongst The Pines
Ten years ago, though
Before the ghost-filled dunes

Left eye
Right as the viewer sees
Glinting in the darkness
A highlight sparks
A white void refusing to give up its secret
I click, press the plus key, 37 years into the future
Robert is looking out
Caught in that square of printed light
Though you couldn’t see it
However far in you try to go 
Dark eyes, too
Bouncing the portal back to the sitter
Warm hazel, could be
Another flavour of deep  
Long fringe, boyish 
A crease in the brow  
Lines that laugh
Or go easy
Taking the train back to Amangansett
Rich suburb by the waves
Fantasy word
Pulling another tee off over his head
Less worn
Grey, too
It could be Andrew’s even
Left on the bed five, six years before
Except it’s also ‘85
Cotton pulls up over skin, shoulders, stubble, shape of the nose
To be handed to Jonathan
Home somewhere
To be dropped to the bathroom floor
To be placed in the deep white porcelain
Whilst calling out to the garden
Flicking on the radio 
Soaking up a puddle in the late afternoon
Previous sunlight fading

Inside this bounce
This zone of recursion between those two sets of eyes
Photographer to subject to photographer
Sharp white glint to
Dark-dark looking pools
And back, and back 
You could catch another figure
If you softened your gaze
If you opened up to magic
Or optical illusions 
A lifeform across the Atlantic
An undetermined figure, misshapen 
A haze
Not from now
The centrefold of the decade
When they are still small, unformed, forming
Putting words and blocks together 
But a later light
From the future
Refracting awkwardly
Body abstracted out of one line
Stripped of their tee
The soft grey not against pale skin
Freckling in the northern summer
But spread out on the uncomfortable sofa behind their naked back
Sweat stains in the sleeves
Drying out in the hot cross breeze
Pulling from the fourth floor balcony

Three bodies in
And out of grey
In a holding of time
And looking
These last-first eyes lit up by screenwash
Dancing in a pattern of shuttling windows
Trying to get in