Friday, November 1, 2013

Erasing the Vitruvian Man

He burrows into caves, hunkers in the
u-bends of veins in the crook of elbows,

crouches in the overhang of alveoli
and fleshy pockets lining cheeks,

takes cover in the plica fimbriata,
anywhere moist and teeming with life.

We tell each other stories and then fold
our words in half and savor the pulp

dissolving on garden buds enharmonically
wagering the taste of two fists of salt.

No, these numbers are not truth. But you are
happy with whatever you get and I'm on

the downward current to where it's belly up.
This body doesn't know enough corporeal

magic. I paint and unpaint in all the mortal
colors of a sticky ontology. My brush sees

the man without the cloth of sensation
and feels his everything, knows the birth

of stars, and shudders in the brilliance of all those
who've ever cast off and all those who ever will.

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