He leans towards it, breath licked in tight
Mr Hutton drones on
The latent smell of gas from boys and Bunsens
A disco, cigarettes, crisps
He sinks his eye into the cradling cup of the lens
Line of sight straitened to these crimson whorls
An enigma, code, map.
Lucas next to him chews and shuffles
He only likes Science with burning tapers and sudden bangs
Peaceful as snowflakes
The blood sits, a silent stain
At home, his mum tries to cheat the meter
Smoothes her slip
Uncle Ted lets the back door click shut.
The blood speckles and flowers
Like a crime scene in miniature
He pictures his outline chalked on the ground
Like on TV
A sketch of a boy, mid-flight.