![]() ![]() ![]() A bass line fades in and out with the wind, and for a moment we think he might join the boy in a dance what easy seduction! Instead, he fans his hands as if at a stench, preaches Shame! The devil comes to a stop in front of the boy, whose small white buttocks, round as a pair of oranges, move loosely in his chaps, as if separate from the rest of his body. Louis Cathedral, a skinny boy in leathers moves his body like an S to a boom box beat we can’t hear over the city’s noise-car horns, the clop of slow-moving horses pulling buggies full of couples who point and exclaim over the devil, so that I feel strangely possessive: Find your own! You hold my hand like it is something extremely valuable. The smell of bourbon on your breath makes me want to take a bite out of your neck. Shouldn’t he like that, you whisper, and we laugh and feel free, the sun already gone but light lingering like the raw pink of an open mouth. THE DEVIL WALKS US to the hat shop on Royal Street, talking in a voice like he eats rocks. ![]()
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