This is for you Hugo, every time I drown in diction
For every time (which IS every time) I can’t get out my words
For every time my one skill fails to serve.
 
This is for you, Hugo, for your youngness/masculinity
For your hidden art, arched taut odd femininity
Hugo this is for you
                     For your age.
 
This, Hugo, is a quick and ardent sketch,
For I shall never paint your portrait.
This is a mere wondrous impression-
The deep and wonderful impression of your impressions on me.
 
This is for the fleetingness of things
The backs of reflections in dirty mirrors
Glanced guilt and things built
On half tones.
 
This is for every time you refuse to speak to me.
This is for your sibling, revered by the world
(NB: I chose you to seem alternative. A point, perhaps, of taste).
This is yours, Hugo,
                 Trapped in your age.
 
Hugo, this is for my fear and fear of joy
Hugo this is for us.
Write your name, write it write it  write it before it dies, or you or I
The strong straight H the almost HUG the O
Letters. Something certain amongst all this extremity.
                (Hugo, this is yours as much as it is mine,
                 Trapped like ambers in our age
                 Together? Chasms apart).