Friday, November 22, 2013

The Skin of Things

The Skin of Things

Why did they tell me
and I told myself
that what I needed
must be hidden
at the very bottom
of life,
a secret compartment
or treasure chest
only years of commitment    
—work, books, cheques,
tears, vows, dearth—
could hope to unearth?
All wrong. Like an angel
harping at a grave
when it could just up
and fly. Because it’s here
at the skin of things—
this skin, this this, this now—
the surface I’ve been
missing with my digging.
It’s more obvious
than air. (Too obvious
to see.) What air
might surround or be
surrounded by
everywhere. And I
breathe it without breathing.   

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