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.