The Secret Skin of Life

The secret skin of life,
I cannot abide it; I am
not afraid of turning in-
side out of the mouth
pressed against the vast
hands of your fame- strangely,

begins again.

In the beginning, my death
was pre-ordained. We are
a nation of law. Somewhere
is found missing. Most wonderous,
the hills drop down mysteriously

and vanish.

Lead us not into temptation
for ours is the nature of darkness,
of vigilant nights and longing.
My blindness conjures visions.
The room is cold, the bones are cold.
I am not brave or borrowed-

I am a stranger to my body.

More clearly, I am on fire
in a boat broken from its mooring.
A blind journey of faith, of floating.
The sails are ash. The sea is black.
an albatross sings of womb, of son,
dips down the strings of wing

and burns.

I am watching you build
a house. The windows
are my face- small, transparent
and necessary. Every nail
a sacred vow pledged to wood.
With the force of your defiance...

you dig my grave.

I will not pray to live or die.
It is beneath me. Like veins.
When we were young, the clock
moved, grew hair and danced.
Now, hands worship while the mind
swings backwards on a face

that looks like mine.

Today, I am unfastened.
I will not leave you without knowing
about the hills, where they disappear.
The small windows of my face
watch you build a clock, an albatross
that flies above my shiftless sea

and falls like stone.

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