the winter-sallow skin,
dry-run, its minimal geometry
broken in light--
the spreading muscles
spinning thin.
over and over--
its involuntary dance
under-familiar.
i plumb myself but find
only freshness.
endless freshness, raw as unspun silk.
the rhythms i knew
gone
the breath that flies my taut chest
broken
like a line of teeth.
what happened to
the things i knew?
scrabble
like mouth on rock,
like seed on the bone-dry plain
to press my face
to the memory of you, but
as everything, shadeless in this newness,
you peel away.