#71

A body is a body, yes. And the taut of muscle, mine. Image, movement, texture. I like windstrewn, I like chapped, I like weathered words in winter, and the warmth they store inside. Scratch that. Rub. Hairs that shade the cheeks and chin. Snow. Scarves on scholars, fog-formed lips. Wool folds, increase. Your hand of legible vein and bone. The clasp of cotton glove.

All day, and my mind wonders. Willing, with weight in grasp, to settle instead of sight. Turn calendar pages. Margins. Lines that form, and love them. Smell what the water's heat removes. My tongue to another tied. Like that, the poem that follows shallow proses. And the towell left damp on the living room chair.

My brothers ring of wedding plans. And childrens prize, mirth coming. January. My heard that's travelled wilder. So often been retreated. Take it, trade. The mode of picture discourse. I him, I haw, I hurdle last. When will light find skin and breath? Flesh of my flesh, and other's flesh the time.