I am pressing down upon a skin.
The skin resists with a supple
firmness; the skin gives but
does not admit to me
the secret in its weight.
The skin is not translucent
but nor is it opaque.
Neither is it luminous—
and yet I sense a faint
or dying glow about its pores.
The skin can breech no
statement to my touch.
It will not communicate;
it will only give
as upon it I slightly press,
pressing on with an eye
to the pale horizon of the flesh.
—April 12, 2009
Directly followed "Sabres Fell."